HOME IMPROVEMENTS...
How do I love my by-pass lopper? Let me count the ways. There is the elegantly fetishistic language with which it is described in the packaging – straight out of William Gibson's material porn. I mean, read this copy and try not to think of Neuromancer – "High carbon, non-stick coated steel blade • Hardwood handles." Sounds almost too nice to use in the yard, doesn't it?
By the way, what is "high carbon?" Carbon that has taken too much of its medication? Is carbon a quality of something a blade or anything else that can be described in degrees? Is it possible to say something like, "that diamond is sooooo carbon?" the way we say "those eyes are sooooo blue?" But I digress, as usual.
As already discussed several days ago, I am also deeply amused by the name, though upon closer examination I have learned that is simply a "lopper" rather than a pair of "loppers." However, like a pair of "scissors" or "clippers" this device has more than one blade. I'm not going to dwell too much on this detail, however. This may just be some kind of linguistic oversight on the part of the GreenThumb company. The lopper was made in the USA, so the manufacturers' grasp of English syntax might not be so good.
How do they work? Beautifully.
Over the last two days I have completely cleared out the riverbank that forms the back boundary of this property I'm renting, a bank rank with dense willows and grasses and weeds, oh my. There was nothing there, though, that could stand up to the unstoppable lopping machine that is formed when the raw animal strength of my own two hands combines with that high carbon and I go to town.
Lop! Lop! Lop! And the willow switches piled up beside me (village small fry, beware!). Lop! Lop! Lop! And the view from my kitchen window improved dramatically. Lop! Lop! Lop! And now Kate's Landing is truly a landing. All I need now is a little dock or something.
Actually, "All I need now" is becoming rather a dangerous phrase. Every weekend this summer has brought new little projects, purchases, all aimed at some heretofore unknown and ultimately unreachable peak of outdoor leisure perfection. The cintronella-saturated tiki torches. The paint on the picnic table. The lawnmower. Two or three different varieties of bird feeder. Inner tubes to float on the river...
And that's where the latest idea has come in. Once the lopping was done, how better to relax than to throw one of those tubes into the river and flop onto it, more or less fully dressed, to cool off? We lazily enjoyed the rest of the scorching afternoon, splashing ourselves down every few minutes to further lower our core temperatures and wash off our sunscreen and watch the golf carts go by on the Bridge Street bridge. We'd been there for maybe an hour when I piped up with the following suggestion:
"You know what we need now? Those drink holders that you just screw into the ground!"
And so, we will not be satisfied again with merely floating about on the surface of our sluggish little river until we can do so with a beer holder handy. Sure, we could make do now by just holding the damned cans in our hands and keeping a cooler on the shore, but that would involve effort and mar our effort at perfecting our leisure.
This is not without irony: I have cut myself from as much media as possible largely because I have concluded it is designed not to inform or entertain or enlarge the soul so much as to make that soul dissatisfied, crave more shit that it doesn't really need. It's why I'm so picky about the films I bother to see (oddly enough, my favorite of recent movies is Minority Report, a film so saturated in media-to-come that its paradoxical plot is almost completely obscured, a film in which holographic ads identify each individual by his retina pattern and tailor their pitches accordingly. At one point, a huge face appears out of nowhere, brandishing my favorite big dark can and saying "John Anderton, it's time for a Guiness." But such films as these only re-enforce my stance on avoiding magazines, television, and anything else that might tempt me to spend money on things other than books and alcohol) (didn't know I was an ascetic, did you?) and about where I get my news. I crave the feeling that my choices are truly my choices, even if it is an illusion even on my restricted media diet.
But still it gets to me. I walk into my local hardware store or the grocery store or the feed store and see something I don't need (caramel flavored coffee creamer, a hummingbird feeder that looks like a hot air balloon, shoelaces tougher than the actual shoes I would lace with them) and take it home, just like everyone else.
So my stance is all a fraud.
But, when the rest of you are sucking on the glass teat (Harlan Ellison's memorable name for television), *I* am sitting lazily on the river, cold beer in my hand, watching the blackbirds fuss and the mallards muck about and Erin-Go-Braless jump 20 feet out of the water at the sight of a six-inch-long water snake.
I think I'm getting the better deal.
Monday, July 15, 2002
Sunday, July 14, 2002
WHY ARE YOU WEARING THAT STUPID MAN SUIT?
Hmm. It's been quite a while since I've written about a film, which is odd since it's something of an obsession of mine.
Caveat lector: I have, especially for Saratoga, a very rare taste in films; what I like is what is frequently called "disturbing" cinema, so in general what I recommend might not be for everyone. Peter Greenaway and David Cronenberg and Wim Wenders are my favorite directors, and films with endings that bring the entire preceding narrative into question and force one to watch again and again to catch all of the possibilities, hints, nuances, are my favorites. Thus I particularly like the director's cut of Ridley Scott's Blade Runner, which demands the viewer rethink the protagonist's identity and role completely. Ditto M. Night Shamalayan's The Sixth Sense and Unbreakable.
With this in mind, it's no surprise that Robert Kelley's Donnie Darko is right up my alley. It's full of mordant humor, disturbing imagery, wild metaphysics and has an ending that demands a second, maybe even a third or fourth, viewing almost immediately (such films are great in theaters, but really come into their own on video. I think some directors have totally tapped into this potential for videotapes and DVDs to transform the way people read movies, and this explains the explosion in seriously tricky films like Christopher Nolan's Memento and Bryan Singer's The Usual Suspects. I, for one, applaud this trend, but I do sympathize with people like my young friend the Ski Bum who screams about them as "mind fucks" and refuses ever to discuss them).
But it's got something else, too, something that I find makes it a film worth being examined much more widely than it has been before now.
Robert Kelley has found a way to make sense of senseless tragedy, and has found a way to communicate it with enough style to reach even the most benumbed teenaged moviegoer yet with enough substance to keep even a picky movie snob like me paying attention.
There is, Kelley maintains, a way of dealing with whatever horror has hit you, and it ties bizarrely in with a concept from Microeconomics 101: opportunity cost. If one particular life is saved at a particular time, what are the repercussions of that apparent thwarting of fate, of God's will (this movie is largely set in a Catholic school; I'm not engaging in bullshit theology here. God is part of this film, in all sorts of subtle and not-so-subtle ways)?
The film really gets going when protagonist Donnie is rescued by a hallucination that resembles nothing so much as a demonic vision of the easter bunny, who summons him from bed to tell him the world is going to end in 28 days. His life spared, Donnie's questions are what to do in those 28 days, how seriously to take Frank the Bunny, and what really is going on with all of his weird intuitions and visitations. Is it because his therapist upped his meds, or is something bigger going on?
"Why are you wearing that stupid man suit?" Frank asks Donnie at one point, and by that point in the movie the idea that life, that humanity, might just be another suit to choose to wear can send the viewer reeling.
Meanwhile, Donnie meets a girl just as weird as he is and falls in love, and engages under Frank's tutelage in a spree of mayhem that is truly inspiring for an old high school anarchist like me to watch (the film is set in 1988, the year I graduated and the year in which a number of truly unpleasant tragedies happened in my little town, the kinds that leave tremendous holes in untold numbers of families, group efforts, hopes – and a year when, as Kelley none-too-subtly points out, this country could have been very different now had the voters of the time chosen Dukakis over Bush. Myself, I voted for Frank Zappa, so maybe I bear some of the blame-according-to-Kelley?). He brings about the downfall of a truly evil man whom many have adopted as a guru (and whose fate and purpose the ending calls into serious question, and rightly so. It would be a betrayal of all the craft of this film to tie up all of its loose ends and make its strangely happy ending too perfect). He broods and laughs through madnesses and moments common to us all.
Honestly, I am somewhat surprised to see this film available at our local video store, which (sorry, Michelle, I know business is business...) is mostly crammed full of big box office crap. But there it is and since there's no Frank Capra or Christopher Nolan or Peter Greenaway or Wim Wenders to be had (though oddly enough they have one of the most amazing and crazy-making films ever, Warner Herzog's Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes [English: Aguirre, Wrath of God] stashed in amongst the Rambo films in the Action/Adventure section), it's pretty much the best thing currently on offer at Saratoga's Video Home Theater.
I'm probably going to hang on to it and watch it a few more times before I turn it back in, though, so be patient. Maybe even wait until such time as you find you need it; such time when you are regretting a stupid loss or just wondering how in the world anyone could ever explain the kind of horrors we endure just in being human. Donnie Darko doesn't have THE answer, but it has AN answer that will do pretty well for a while.
Hmm. It's been quite a while since I've written about a film, which is odd since it's something of an obsession of mine.
Caveat lector: I have, especially for Saratoga, a very rare taste in films; what I like is what is frequently called "disturbing" cinema, so in general what I recommend might not be for everyone. Peter Greenaway and David Cronenberg and Wim Wenders are my favorite directors, and films with endings that bring the entire preceding narrative into question and force one to watch again and again to catch all of the possibilities, hints, nuances, are my favorites. Thus I particularly like the director's cut of Ridley Scott's Blade Runner, which demands the viewer rethink the protagonist's identity and role completely. Ditto M. Night Shamalayan's The Sixth Sense and Unbreakable.
With this in mind, it's no surprise that Robert Kelley's Donnie Darko is right up my alley. It's full of mordant humor, disturbing imagery, wild metaphysics and has an ending that demands a second, maybe even a third or fourth, viewing almost immediately (such films are great in theaters, but really come into their own on video. I think some directors have totally tapped into this potential for videotapes and DVDs to transform the way people read movies, and this explains the explosion in seriously tricky films like Christopher Nolan's Memento and Bryan Singer's The Usual Suspects. I, for one, applaud this trend, but I do sympathize with people like my young friend the Ski Bum who screams about them as "mind fucks" and refuses ever to discuss them).
But it's got something else, too, something that I find makes it a film worth being examined much more widely than it has been before now.
Robert Kelley has found a way to make sense of senseless tragedy, and has found a way to communicate it with enough style to reach even the most benumbed teenaged moviegoer yet with enough substance to keep even a picky movie snob like me paying attention.
There is, Kelley maintains, a way of dealing with whatever horror has hit you, and it ties bizarrely in with a concept from Microeconomics 101: opportunity cost. If one particular life is saved at a particular time, what are the repercussions of that apparent thwarting of fate, of God's will (this movie is largely set in a Catholic school; I'm not engaging in bullshit theology here. God is part of this film, in all sorts of subtle and not-so-subtle ways)?
The film really gets going when protagonist Donnie is rescued by a hallucination that resembles nothing so much as a demonic vision of the easter bunny, who summons him from bed to tell him the world is going to end in 28 days. His life spared, Donnie's questions are what to do in those 28 days, how seriously to take Frank the Bunny, and what really is going on with all of his weird intuitions and visitations. Is it because his therapist upped his meds, or is something bigger going on?
"Why are you wearing that stupid man suit?" Frank asks Donnie at one point, and by that point in the movie the idea that life, that humanity, might just be another suit to choose to wear can send the viewer reeling.
Meanwhile, Donnie meets a girl just as weird as he is and falls in love, and engages under Frank's tutelage in a spree of mayhem that is truly inspiring for an old high school anarchist like me to watch (the film is set in 1988, the year I graduated and the year in which a number of truly unpleasant tragedies happened in my little town, the kinds that leave tremendous holes in untold numbers of families, group efforts, hopes – and a year when, as Kelley none-too-subtly points out, this country could have been very different now had the voters of the time chosen Dukakis over Bush. Myself, I voted for Frank Zappa, so maybe I bear some of the blame-according-to-Kelley?). He brings about the downfall of a truly evil man whom many have adopted as a guru (and whose fate and purpose the ending calls into serious question, and rightly so. It would be a betrayal of all the craft of this film to tie up all of its loose ends and make its strangely happy ending too perfect). He broods and laughs through madnesses and moments common to us all.
Honestly, I am somewhat surprised to see this film available at our local video store, which (sorry, Michelle, I know business is business...) is mostly crammed full of big box office crap. But there it is and since there's no Frank Capra or Christopher Nolan or Peter Greenaway or Wim Wenders to be had (though oddly enough they have one of the most amazing and crazy-making films ever, Warner Herzog's Aguirre, der Zorn Gottes [English: Aguirre, Wrath of God] stashed in amongst the Rambo films in the Action/Adventure section), it's pretty much the best thing currently on offer at Saratoga's Video Home Theater.
I'm probably going to hang on to it and watch it a few more times before I turn it back in, though, so be patient. Maybe even wait until such time as you find you need it; such time when you are regretting a stupid loss or just wondering how in the world anyone could ever explain the kind of horrors we endure just in being human. Donnie Darko doesn't have THE answer, but it has AN answer that will do pretty well for a while.
Saturday, July 13, 2002
SATURDAY FIRE UPDATE
Once again, many thanks to Jerry Silvio of the Laramie office of the United States Forest Service for the information I'm passing on here.
There are now two fires burning in our Medicine Bow-Routt National Forest: the fire upon which I reported yesterday that is now known as the "Bear Mountain South" fire, and another that is actually in Colorado called the "Hinman" fire.
The "Bear Mountain South" fire, which is 12 miles southeast of Encampment, has grown to 400 acres and is burning heavy timber on steep terrain. The same six residences and six commercial buildings are still threatened and are still being protected by county volunteer fire crews.
The incident management team from Montana has arrived. The group will use ten 20-person hand crews, 12 engines, three bulldozers and five helicopters, as well as air tankers making retardant drops.
The Hinman fire, first reported yesterday afternoon by, among others, the Saratoga Parks and Recreation Board (that being the Minister of Fun, Officer Aimee, and myself, who were heading south for some hiking) is believed to have been started a few days ago by lightning.
The Hinman fire is burning between the Coulton Creek and Hinman drainages about 20 miles north of Steamboat Springs, Colorado. By nightfall last night, this fire had grown to in excess of 500 acres. Like the Bear Mtn South fire, the blaze is going in heavy timber on very rugged terrain. Access is limited and there are reports of extreme fire behavior, including torching, spotting (Mass transfer of firebrands ahead of a fire front) and significant downhill runs.
A lot of residences and commercial property are threatened. No one has been evacuated yet, but everyone has been notified.
Four 20-person hand crews, three helicopters, five engines and an incident management team have been ordered and should arrive today for the Hinman fire.
Once again, the weather forecast calls for sunny skies, moderate winds and hot temperatures.
Once again, many thanks to Jerry Silvio of the Laramie office of the United States Forest Service for the information I'm passing on here.
There are now two fires burning in our Medicine Bow-Routt National Forest: the fire upon which I reported yesterday that is now known as the "Bear Mountain South" fire, and another that is actually in Colorado called the "Hinman" fire.
The "Bear Mountain South" fire, which is 12 miles southeast of Encampment, has grown to 400 acres and is burning heavy timber on steep terrain. The same six residences and six commercial buildings are still threatened and are still being protected by county volunteer fire crews.
The incident management team from Montana has arrived. The group will use ten 20-person hand crews, 12 engines, three bulldozers and five helicopters, as well as air tankers making retardant drops.
The Hinman fire, first reported yesterday afternoon by, among others, the Saratoga Parks and Recreation Board (that being the Minister of Fun, Officer Aimee, and myself, who were heading south for some hiking) is believed to have been started a few days ago by lightning.
The Hinman fire is burning between the Coulton Creek and Hinman drainages about 20 miles north of Steamboat Springs, Colorado. By nightfall last night, this fire had grown to in excess of 500 acres. Like the Bear Mtn South fire, the blaze is going in heavy timber on very rugged terrain. Access is limited and there are reports of extreme fire behavior, including torching, spotting (Mass transfer of firebrands ahead of a fire front) and significant downhill runs.
A lot of residences and commercial property are threatened. No one has been evacuated yet, but everyone has been notified.
Four 20-person hand crews, three helicopters, five engines and an incident management team have been ordered and should arrive today for the Hinman fire.
Once again, the weather forecast calls for sunny skies, moderate winds and hot temperatures.
Friday, July 12, 2002
THE LONG-AWAITED OUCH
Well, it’s happened at last, and it’s sort of a relief for many of us, who at last have a location and a region upon which to focus the anxiety we’ve been just sort of stewing in since April, when the first big wildfires hit Colorado.
As of yesterday afternoon, we are host to the #2 priority fire in the Rocky Mountain Region.
The Bear Mountain fire, right near my buddy Dick’s favorite hunting grounds, currently covers about 200 acres 12 airmiles southeast of Encampment, according to a news release I received from the US Forest Service just now (12:45 p.m.).
Crews are seeing torching and crowning in the treetops (torching happens when a tree is in the vicinity of flame and lights up as though on its own due largely to the heat – in wildfires like this, fire does not have to physically travel to spread; direct contact with something already burning isn’t necessary. Imagine being able to light a candle by waving a match somewhere near it).
Even the aspen, normally something of a barrier or at least a retarder of forest fire because normally these trees are so damp, are burning up.
Local volunteer firefighters are providing structure protection for six residences and six commercial buildings. There are two heavy lift and two medium lift helicopters providing water drops on the fire. The news release also indicates that some slurry drops (big planes that pour that cherry red fire retardant on the fire) should also be available soon today.
Meanwhile, a national Type 2 management team from Montana is on the way, along with additional fire and hotshot crews who are en route to the Encampment area to help build firelines.
According to the Forest Service release, this fire was first reported at 3 p.m. Thursday and was burning about three acres of land and heavy timber.
“Conditions were so dry and hot that an hour later it had grown to 75-80 acres,” the release says.
Weather forecasts for the weekend call for sunny skies and hot temperatures.
*****************
I’ll do my best over the weekend to keep everyone posted on what’s going on up there, since the newspaper only comes out once a week.
Well, it’s happened at last, and it’s sort of a relief for many of us, who at last have a location and a region upon which to focus the anxiety we’ve been just sort of stewing in since April, when the first big wildfires hit Colorado.
As of yesterday afternoon, we are host to the #2 priority fire in the Rocky Mountain Region.
The Bear Mountain fire, right near my buddy Dick’s favorite hunting grounds, currently covers about 200 acres 12 airmiles southeast of Encampment, according to a news release I received from the US Forest Service just now (12:45 p.m.).
Crews are seeing torching and crowning in the treetops (torching happens when a tree is in the vicinity of flame and lights up as though on its own due largely to the heat – in wildfires like this, fire does not have to physically travel to spread; direct contact with something already burning isn’t necessary. Imagine being able to light a candle by waving a match somewhere near it).
Even the aspen, normally something of a barrier or at least a retarder of forest fire because normally these trees are so damp, are burning up.
Local volunteer firefighters are providing structure protection for six residences and six commercial buildings. There are two heavy lift and two medium lift helicopters providing water drops on the fire. The news release also indicates that some slurry drops (big planes that pour that cherry red fire retardant on the fire) should also be available soon today.
Meanwhile, a national Type 2 management team from Montana is on the way, along with additional fire and hotshot crews who are en route to the Encampment area to help build firelines.
According to the Forest Service release, this fire was first reported at 3 p.m. Thursday and was burning about three acres of land and heavy timber.
“Conditions were so dry and hot that an hour later it had grown to 75-80 acres,” the release says.
Weather forecasts for the weekend call for sunny skies and hot temperatures.
*****************
I’ll do my best over the weekend to keep everyone posted on what’s going on up there, since the newspaper only comes out once a week.
Thursday, July 11, 2002
OKAY, I THINK I GET IT...
Some days are just meant to humble us. Oh, we see it coming; too long a string of good fortune (I just typoed “goof” for “good.” I’m sure that means something) and we get suspicious. We feel we are being set up for a pratfall. Soon it becomes excruciating and we start suspecting all of our friends of plotting sillily against us. We get downright paranoid. We stop answering the phone lest we fall for the Prince Albert joke or something. We stop accepting dinner invitations. We retreat into small, dark corners of our houses and cower, driven mad by good fortune and the promise of its departure. Soon our friends and neighbors start asking one another, whatever became of old so-and-so? and nobody has any idea. Our mailboxes start to overflow and our lawns become buried under so many newspapers that have landed like giant thudding snowflakes on our unwatered grass....
Where was I? Oh yes. Some days are just meant to humble us. And today, for your humble blogger, is one such day.
In the last 24 hours I have been in various and entertaining ways burnt and stunned and yanked to the ground, wakened rudely by rude smells and terrible sounds, bonked and gashed severely on the head and just plain humiliated in general (for of course the most spectacular of these occurrences happened in front of spectators).
It all started last night when I was enjoying a peaceful evening on the lawn at Kate’s Landing, and my buddy revealed he just happened to have a supply of our favorite cigars on hand.
Now, on paper, I hate smoking. I am thoroughly indoctrinated as regards its effects on health, well being, sex life. I have made regrettable, regrettable deals with my own dear personal dad (up to and including removing the stud I wore through my tongue for five very happy years, gift of my last boyfriend in Boston, who was a body piercer, for my 24th birthday, amusing plaything, dirty little secret, storage facility for Lifesavers... I can’t believe how much I miss it) to get him to stop smoking. I avoid certain bars because they are too smoky. I get a little upset every time I find myself dating a pack-a-day man (though I have never ended a relationship over this).
But here’s the thing: I love cigars. I love them sentimentally and sensuously, love their look, their feel in my hand, their taste, their accoutrements, the memories associated with them (yes, I’m one of those who mark important occasions with a cigar: my first fish caught ice fishing, my high school graduation [which was also my first CUBAN], both of the times I’ve gotten engaged, the new millennium [smoked many cigars with the members of Gyrating Bhtch at the Mueller Millennial Meltdown]), the relationships I’ve built over them. I love cigars.
So when my friend pulled one out for me last night, of course I was delighted, and thought nothing of leaning over and letting him gallantly light it for me.
Then a gentle breeze picked up and began gently wafting around us, gently stirring the leaves and making them sing, gently inspiring the willows on the bank to bow and curtsey, gently jingling the chimes...
And gently blowing my long, thick hair right into the flame.
Next thing I knew, I was stunned and channelling Michael Jackson while my companion simultaneously laughed his ass off and tried to help me put out the flame.
Nothing serious, I’m not even scorched, and to look at me you can’t even tell I’ve lost any hair because I have so much. But still. MY HAIR CAUGHT FIRE.
BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Those wacky, wacky gods, and their wacky, wacky sense of timing, I remember thinking as I settled back at long last to enjoy the damned cigar already (after having sensibly pulled my hair back into a knot) (you didn’t think I was going to pass up the smoke just because of a few little flames, did you?) (something had to kill the aroma of burnt Kate fur that was lingering in the air).
Then I remember thinking, well, I had something like this coming. I’ve been way too smooth lately. Too much has been going my way. I have gotten smug and comfortable and have succumbed again to the silly notion that I can just sail through the rest of my life on this wave of contentment – and this little incident was my friendly reminder that it wasn’t so.
Apparently I needed more, however!
Cut to, oh, about 2 a.m. I awaken to a hideous smell. At first I think one of the burners on the stove must still be on and something is melting. Then I remember my hair. Must be that. But no! It’s a trespasser of sorts...
You see, there was a skunk right outside my window. And my beloved dog (really!) the Collie of Folly, Molly, whose color scheme is not unlike a skunk’s herself, and now I know why, had taken umbrage at the intrusion on my behalf.
But instead of politely asking, shall I just shoo off this interloper for you, Kate dear? She just made a dash for it, trying to use the big room’s window as a doggie door.
Problem #1: It was not open widely enough to allow her eager egress.
Problem #2: There is (or was) a rather substantial curtain hanging over that window.
There was, however, no stopping the Collie of Folly. Skunk, begone!
Please note: all of this is mere interpolation on my part. My own direct experience of this event involved my awakening slightly to the odor and then bolt out fight-or-flight AWAKE with the curtain rod and various sharp little hangers protruding therefrom clocked me over the head.
The bleeding stopped fairly quickly, but now there was a little problem of light pollution; I’m directly across from a street light, and suddenly my nice dark slumber had given way to freaking Las Vegas in my living room. If I wanted to sleep again, the curtain would have to go back up.
Nothing doing; the curtain rod (brand new just last week after a similar case of Folly) had been twisted into some weird new wire sculpture that could have taken the 3-D prize at last weekend’s arts festival. Phooey.
So I lay fuming in my bed for a few hours and waited with dread for the inevitable dawn. Eventually I dozed, but then, then, OH GOD, IT BURNS, THE BURNING, IT BURNS.
Photon torpedoes were shooting through my head. White hot lasers lacerated my eyes. My scalp was on fire (no wait, that was hours ago). Oh Jesus the SUN. Turn it off!
The Collie of Folly, meanwhile, was quietly whimpering on her couch. She’s basically a passive solar collector on four legs. Serves her right.
Never have I felt such a burning need to make the trip to yon hardware store. Must get curtain rod. Must get curtain rod. Unendurable. The pain. The horror.
Then I wrecked my bicycle (still making do with that ancient front tire – and I don’t think I got the brakes aligned right when I hastily threw the thing back on there). Right in front of the store. In front of a parked pickup, which I narrowly missed hitting on my trip to the ground. Thank god no one saw THAT, I thought, dusting myself off, checking for embarrassing tears in the pants and that sort of thing, and gimping over to lean my bike against the store.
Then I looked into the pickup again. And there they were. Lawnboy and the Sewer King.
I was never going to live this down. Ever.
What could I do? I sailed into the hardware store and bought a new curtain rod. For good measure, I also bought a pair of “Loppers” I had vague notions that my project for this weekend would be tackling the overgrowth of willows on the riverbank that mess up the fishing from my backyard. I thought a pair of pruning shears might do, but then the King and I fixed on those “Loppers” and if you think what finally sold me on those “Loppers” was that I really like the idea, the sound, the word “Loppers” then you have learned much about me indeed from reading this page.
“Loppers”
The “Loppers” cheered me up immensely.
Then on my way home I wrecked on my bike again. This time only a long legged rat grazing on my neighbor’s lawn witnessed my fall (too bad; it was far more spectacular than my earlier performance at the hardware store). I turned over my bike on the spot and tightened up the offending nuts. Sheesh.
Upon my arrival at home, the Collie of Folly was apoplectic, and enthusiastically tried to help me hang the curtain rod by choosing to lick my very ticklish instep every time I perched myself on the back of the couch to reach the mounting brackets way up there.
Mounting brackets. Mounting brackets (I keep typing “mountain” for mounting. It’s that kind of a day). Not that I knew what they were called. I know NOW... Because they were bent out of shape. Bent beyond recognition. No curtain rod would ever hang from these again.
Meanwhile, searing, scorching solar radiation bathed my bod. I could feel the hairs on my arms and legs crisping. I could actually see the flesh toasting. Soon my dog would think I was a midday snack, nicely browned like a sausage.
Back on my bike, back to the hardware store. Five different employees all took a stab at figuring out what it is I’m looking for. At one point I resorted to drawing the thing on my hand. At long last the King Emeritus of the hardware store made some sense of my babbling and together we found new mounting brackets for my new curtain rod.
All before coffee!
To which I went with relief. Because I had learned my lesson about gloating over how good I’ve got it. Namely, don’t do it.
Uncle! Uncle! Uncle!
Some days are just meant to humble us. Oh, we see it coming; too long a string of good fortune (I just typoed “goof” for “good.” I’m sure that means something) and we get suspicious. We feel we are being set up for a pratfall. Soon it becomes excruciating and we start suspecting all of our friends of plotting sillily against us. We get downright paranoid. We stop answering the phone lest we fall for the Prince Albert joke or something. We stop accepting dinner invitations. We retreat into small, dark corners of our houses and cower, driven mad by good fortune and the promise of its departure. Soon our friends and neighbors start asking one another, whatever became of old so-and-so? and nobody has any idea. Our mailboxes start to overflow and our lawns become buried under so many newspapers that have landed like giant thudding snowflakes on our unwatered grass....
Where was I? Oh yes. Some days are just meant to humble us. And today, for your humble blogger, is one such day.
In the last 24 hours I have been in various and entertaining ways burnt and stunned and yanked to the ground, wakened rudely by rude smells and terrible sounds, bonked and gashed severely on the head and just plain humiliated in general (for of course the most spectacular of these occurrences happened in front of spectators).
It all started last night when I was enjoying a peaceful evening on the lawn at Kate’s Landing, and my buddy revealed he just happened to have a supply of our favorite cigars on hand.
Now, on paper, I hate smoking. I am thoroughly indoctrinated as regards its effects on health, well being, sex life. I have made regrettable, regrettable deals with my own dear personal dad (up to and including removing the stud I wore through my tongue for five very happy years, gift of my last boyfriend in Boston, who was a body piercer, for my 24th birthday, amusing plaything, dirty little secret, storage facility for Lifesavers... I can’t believe how much I miss it) to get him to stop smoking. I avoid certain bars because they are too smoky. I get a little upset every time I find myself dating a pack-a-day man (though I have never ended a relationship over this).
But here’s the thing: I love cigars. I love them sentimentally and sensuously, love their look, their feel in my hand, their taste, their accoutrements, the memories associated with them (yes, I’m one of those who mark important occasions with a cigar: my first fish caught ice fishing, my high school graduation [which was also my first CUBAN], both of the times I’ve gotten engaged, the new millennium [smoked many cigars with the members of Gyrating Bhtch at the Mueller Millennial Meltdown]), the relationships I’ve built over them. I love cigars.
So when my friend pulled one out for me last night, of course I was delighted, and thought nothing of leaning over and letting him gallantly light it for me.
Then a gentle breeze picked up and began gently wafting around us, gently stirring the leaves and making them sing, gently inspiring the willows on the bank to bow and curtsey, gently jingling the chimes...
And gently blowing my long, thick hair right into the flame.
Next thing I knew, I was stunned and channelling Michael Jackson while my companion simultaneously laughed his ass off and tried to help me put out the flame.
Nothing serious, I’m not even scorched, and to look at me you can’t even tell I’ve lost any hair because I have so much. But still. MY HAIR CAUGHT FIRE.
BAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
Those wacky, wacky gods, and their wacky, wacky sense of timing, I remember thinking as I settled back at long last to enjoy the damned cigar already (after having sensibly pulled my hair back into a knot) (you didn’t think I was going to pass up the smoke just because of a few little flames, did you?) (something had to kill the aroma of burnt Kate fur that was lingering in the air).
Then I remember thinking, well, I had something like this coming. I’ve been way too smooth lately. Too much has been going my way. I have gotten smug and comfortable and have succumbed again to the silly notion that I can just sail through the rest of my life on this wave of contentment – and this little incident was my friendly reminder that it wasn’t so.
Apparently I needed more, however!
Cut to, oh, about 2 a.m. I awaken to a hideous smell. At first I think one of the burners on the stove must still be on and something is melting. Then I remember my hair. Must be that. But no! It’s a trespasser of sorts...
You see, there was a skunk right outside my window. And my beloved dog (really!) the Collie of Folly, Molly, whose color scheme is not unlike a skunk’s herself, and now I know why, had taken umbrage at the intrusion on my behalf.
But instead of politely asking, shall I just shoo off this interloper for you, Kate dear? She just made a dash for it, trying to use the big room’s window as a doggie door.
Problem #1: It was not open widely enough to allow her eager egress.
Problem #2: There is (or was) a rather substantial curtain hanging over that window.
There was, however, no stopping the Collie of Folly. Skunk, begone!
Please note: all of this is mere interpolation on my part. My own direct experience of this event involved my awakening slightly to the odor and then bolt out fight-or-flight AWAKE with the curtain rod and various sharp little hangers protruding therefrom clocked me over the head.
The bleeding stopped fairly quickly, but now there was a little problem of light pollution; I’m directly across from a street light, and suddenly my nice dark slumber had given way to freaking Las Vegas in my living room. If I wanted to sleep again, the curtain would have to go back up.
Nothing doing; the curtain rod (brand new just last week after a similar case of Folly) had been twisted into some weird new wire sculpture that could have taken the 3-D prize at last weekend’s arts festival. Phooey.
So I lay fuming in my bed for a few hours and waited with dread for the inevitable dawn. Eventually I dozed, but then, then, OH GOD, IT BURNS, THE BURNING, IT BURNS.
Photon torpedoes were shooting through my head. White hot lasers lacerated my eyes. My scalp was on fire (no wait, that was hours ago). Oh Jesus the SUN. Turn it off!
The Collie of Folly, meanwhile, was quietly whimpering on her couch. She’s basically a passive solar collector on four legs. Serves her right.
Never have I felt such a burning need to make the trip to yon hardware store. Must get curtain rod. Must get curtain rod. Unendurable. The pain. The horror.
Then I wrecked my bicycle (still making do with that ancient front tire – and I don’t think I got the brakes aligned right when I hastily threw the thing back on there). Right in front of the store. In front of a parked pickup, which I narrowly missed hitting on my trip to the ground. Thank god no one saw THAT, I thought, dusting myself off, checking for embarrassing tears in the pants and that sort of thing, and gimping over to lean my bike against the store.
Then I looked into the pickup again. And there they were. Lawnboy and the Sewer King.
I was never going to live this down. Ever.
What could I do? I sailed into the hardware store and bought a new curtain rod. For good measure, I also bought a pair of “Loppers” I had vague notions that my project for this weekend would be tackling the overgrowth of willows on the riverbank that mess up the fishing from my backyard. I thought a pair of pruning shears might do, but then the King and I fixed on those “Loppers” and if you think what finally sold me on those “Loppers” was that I really like the idea, the sound, the word “Loppers” then you have learned much about me indeed from reading this page.
“Loppers”
The “Loppers” cheered me up immensely.
Then on my way home I wrecked on my bike again. This time only a long legged rat grazing on my neighbor’s lawn witnessed my fall (too bad; it was far more spectacular than my earlier performance at the hardware store). I turned over my bike on the spot and tightened up the offending nuts. Sheesh.
Upon my arrival at home, the Collie of Folly was apoplectic, and enthusiastically tried to help me hang the curtain rod by choosing to lick my very ticklish instep every time I perched myself on the back of the couch to reach the mounting brackets way up there.
Mounting brackets. Mounting brackets (I keep typing “mountain” for mounting. It’s that kind of a day). Not that I knew what they were called. I know NOW... Because they were bent out of shape. Bent beyond recognition. No curtain rod would ever hang from these again.
Meanwhile, searing, scorching solar radiation bathed my bod. I could feel the hairs on my arms and legs crisping. I could actually see the flesh toasting. Soon my dog would think I was a midday snack, nicely browned like a sausage.
Back on my bike, back to the hardware store. Five different employees all took a stab at figuring out what it is I’m looking for. At one point I resorted to drawing the thing on my hand. At long last the King Emeritus of the hardware store made some sense of my babbling and together we found new mounting brackets for my new curtain rod.
All before coffee!
To which I went with relief. Because I had learned my lesson about gloating over how good I’ve got it. Namely, don’t do it.
Uncle! Uncle! Uncle!
Wednesday, July 10, 2002
BEST CLASSIFIED SECTION EVER!
At a recent convention of the Wyoming Association of Municipalities, I attended a workshop on communicating with the public, a sort of free-for-all brainstorming/gab session about dealing with the news media, with public comments and complaints, and especially with crank provocateurs.
I was especially entertained by my friend Jeanne, the mayor of Jackson, who has a whole stable of crackpots dogging her every move in the newspaper and elsewhere (and some of them work for the newspaper). People who never attend a council meeting or ask a question of anyone who has anything actually to do with town business nevertheless exfoliate her weekly in the pages of the town’s two newspapers (who fan the flames of controversy as much as they can to beef up circulation).
I was so jealous.
So imagine my delight when I opened our own local media outlet this morning after coffee. The classified page of this week’s Sun is one of the greatest things I have ever, ever read! It’s so wonderful that I’m going to treat you all to a sampling.
What follows are two verbatim box ads on that page. Masterpieces!
#1:
“It seems ironic, no shameful, no tragic that as the town of Saratoga’s population continually goes down, the town government seems to think that the dwindling population of hard working citizens needs more police supervision at an ever greater cost.
“Saratoga seemed to be quite, safe, and certainly nice and more friendly place to live when the police force was more like Mayberry’s rather than the Police State it now resembles.
“The Town Council and ultimately the Mayor has the final say in who the police force is comprised of and what direction it takes. Remember the Council, Mayor and the Police Force works for you the citizen, not the other way around. If you have any views on this, contact The Bob and H.A.N.K.g. For a New Mayor Fund.
“Local elections are coming soon... you can make a change!
(H.A.N.K.g = High time for A New Kind of government)
Note to out of town readers: Hank is also the first name of our current mayor.
#2:
“A casual observer reading the weekly police reports regarding dog enforcement would be under the impression that our police department is woefully understaffed.
“It seems we need a lareger police department to not only enforce all the dog laws to the letter, but to also enforce the many other very important laws that effect our everyday lives.
“Heaven knows that we do not want to go unpounished tohose unlawful folks who stop to talk in the middle of the street or jay walk to talk to a neighbor. Such unlawfulness must not go unpunished!
“We must keep a vigilante watch on our neighbors because they must be violating some law. If you see a neighbor violating a law, no matter how trivial, please contact the local police department as they are probably busy taking care of the more important business of ticketing dogs.
“If you have any views on this, contact: The Bob and K.C. For a larger More Intrusive Police Department Fund
(KC = kinder and caring)
YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I just wish this Bob person would come to a council meeting once in a while and stir the pot in person. Or better yet, run for office. Council meetings are so boring it’s all I can do to pay attention and not write smut stories while I sit there on the dais. I’ve been tempted to start making up really and seriously ridiculous ordinances and shoving them through just to see if anyone is paying attention or cares at all.
(Of course, I could never top the “missile” ordinance about which I wrote a few weeks ago in terms of sheer outrageous uselessness. By the way, the thing passed on a 4-1, with me being the only “nay.” Next time you shoot a BB at a deer or a feral cat, better hope the projectile’s kinetic energy poops out before the extent of your property does)
But that’s just pie in the sky wishing on my part. I guess I’ll probably have to settle for the classified page.
Can’t wait for next week!
At a recent convention of the Wyoming Association of Municipalities, I attended a workshop on communicating with the public, a sort of free-for-all brainstorming/gab session about dealing with the news media, with public comments and complaints, and especially with crank provocateurs.
I was especially entertained by my friend Jeanne, the mayor of Jackson, who has a whole stable of crackpots dogging her every move in the newspaper and elsewhere (and some of them work for the newspaper). People who never attend a council meeting or ask a question of anyone who has anything actually to do with town business nevertheless exfoliate her weekly in the pages of the town’s two newspapers (who fan the flames of controversy as much as they can to beef up circulation).
I was so jealous.
So imagine my delight when I opened our own local media outlet this morning after coffee. The classified page of this week’s Sun is one of the greatest things I have ever, ever read! It’s so wonderful that I’m going to treat you all to a sampling.
What follows are two verbatim box ads on that page. Masterpieces!
#1:
“It seems ironic, no shameful, no tragic that as the town of Saratoga’s population continually goes down, the town government seems to think that the dwindling population of hard working citizens needs more police supervision at an ever greater cost.
“Saratoga seemed to be quite, safe, and certainly nice and more friendly place to live when the police force was more like Mayberry’s rather than the Police State it now resembles.
“The Town Council and ultimately the Mayor has the final say in who the police force is comprised of and what direction it takes. Remember the Council, Mayor and the Police Force works for you the citizen, not the other way around. If you have any views on this, contact The Bob and H.A.N.K.g. For a New Mayor Fund.
“Local elections are coming soon... you can make a change!
(H.A.N.K.g = High time for A New Kind of government)
Note to out of town readers: Hank is also the first name of our current mayor.
#2:
“A casual observer reading the weekly police reports regarding dog enforcement would be under the impression that our police department is woefully understaffed.
“It seems we need a lareger police department to not only enforce all the dog laws to the letter, but to also enforce the many other very important laws that effect our everyday lives.
“Heaven knows that we do not want to go unpounished tohose unlawful folks who stop to talk in the middle of the street or jay walk to talk to a neighbor. Such unlawfulness must not go unpunished!
“We must keep a vigilante watch on our neighbors because they must be violating some law. If you see a neighbor violating a law, no matter how trivial, please contact the local police department as they are probably busy taking care of the more important business of ticketing dogs.
“If you have any views on this, contact: The Bob and K.C. For a larger More Intrusive Police Department Fund
(KC = kinder and caring)
YES!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I just wish this Bob person would come to a council meeting once in a while and stir the pot in person. Or better yet, run for office. Council meetings are so boring it’s all I can do to pay attention and not write smut stories while I sit there on the dais. I’ve been tempted to start making up really and seriously ridiculous ordinances and shoving them through just to see if anyone is paying attention or cares at all.
(Of course, I could never top the “missile” ordinance about which I wrote a few weeks ago in terms of sheer outrageous uselessness. By the way, the thing passed on a 4-1, with me being the only “nay.” Next time you shoot a BB at a deer or a feral cat, better hope the projectile’s kinetic energy poops out before the extent of your property does)
But that’s just pie in the sky wishing on my part. I guess I’ll probably have to settle for the classified page.
Can’t wait for next week!
Tuesday, July 09, 2002
TIRING ADDENDUM
Oh, bah. It's not the Bird Lord but the Sewer King from whom I must aspire to get a new tire. And he doesn't have one in stock, so I have to wait until Friday, which means I must put the less wretched of my two OLD tires back onto my bike with a new tube inside and pray the whole apparatus doesn't blow out as I race from meeting to meeting through the rest of this week.
Of course, I could just wait it all out and walk for a while, but walking is too damned slow. I can break the speed limit (with impunity: the police here never train their radar guns on cyclists) on a bike. On foot, an arthritic bee can lap me. Phooey.
Oh, bah. It's not the Bird Lord but the Sewer King from whom I must aspire to get a new tire. And he doesn't have one in stock, so I have to wait until Friday, which means I must put the less wretched of my two OLD tires back onto my bike with a new tube inside and pray the whole apparatus doesn't blow out as I race from meeting to meeting through the rest of this week.
Of course, I could just wait it all out and walk for a while, but walking is too damned slow. I can break the speed limit (with impunity: the police here never train their radar guns on cyclists) on a bike. On foot, an arthritic bee can lap me. Phooey.
Monday, July 08, 2002
OH, HOW TIRESOME
Every once in a while a day comes along that I can only describe as a "theme day."
Today was one. And what a theme.
The main topic of discussion at coffee this morning occasionally foreshadows the rest of my day in tone if not in detailed fact, but today, today if my coffee boys started calling themselves my psychic friends I'd get creeped out and then start a 1-900 line and put Miss Cleo out of business.
I don't remember what got everyone rolling, but the weirdass gods who preside over our conversations decreed that today was the day that the coffee boys would swap horrible tire stories. Tires that blew out on the road to Tulles. Tires that are defective right out of the factory. Tires newly bought from the Bird Lord (he who once or twice a year plays host to a new variety of poultry in his yard - see my poetic entry on New Year's Day), taken out on some of our truly horrifying county roads, stock trails and two-tracks and consequently blowing out the same day and having to be replaced (at a rate only slightly faster than the Bird Lord's own tire replacements). The joy of taunting one of our number, a former CEO of Bridgestone-Firestone, with compliments for the products of Goodyear & Co. Tires, tires, tires.
I sat amongst my friends amused but mostly silent, for I had no tire stories to tell. Clearly, I have led a deprived and colorless life, I thought, and smiled a cold and polite smile to hide my depraved jealousy as gem after gem was brought out, examined, dished over.
Meanwhile, at the store of the Bird Lord, Erin Go-Braless, her sister Karin-Go-Braless, her mother Jane-Go-Braless, and future brother-in-law Gigglepuss were all dickering with said Bird Lord over some inner tubes. They wanted to float around on the surface of the lake where sister, mom and FBIL are camping, and as everyone knows, for aimless floating old truck inner tubes are just the thing (they have since been donated to the Kate's Landing Grown Up Playground and Tent Farm for use of the denizens thereof in the very nearby trickle that in better years we call the North Platte River. My home is almost perfect). I learned of this and giggled at the coincidence.
Then as we were getting dinner (to be consumed at grandpa's picnic table – more memories in the making, always more) the topic of a certain brand new pair of bicycle tires came up, and how they've been sitting behind the dining room table for a few weeks awaiting employment, and wouldn't it be great if KGB and Gigglepuss put them on my bike!
The old tires came off easily. The wheels less so (of course I was out of WD-40). The inner tubes seemed undamaged and so good enough to use again. We were almost to the step where the new tires and the tubes go back on the bike (and discussing how best to get the tubes reinflated, since I currently do not have a bicycle pump) when the Minister of Fun, who fancies himself (correctly) quite the bicycle mechanic, happened along.
His solution of course was to load up the tires and the wheels and haul them into the town shop to air them up. What could be simpler?
But, this is my brother Chilly, and when Chilly and I get together something weird always happens.
First, it turned out that we had managed to introduce minute holes into the inner tubes while we pried the ancient mismatched tires that I'd ridden nearly bald off my bike. No problem; Chilly had a patch kit. We patched away and all was in readiness.
Front wheel: In goes the tube, on goes the nozzle for the big electrical air pump, pssssssssssst! in something like two seconds, the tube and tire are at a perfect and ideal 40 psi. Slick! I remember saying, or words to that effect. We'll be done in no time.
The second tube, also patched in one spot, was neatly in place within the second tire when disaster struck! The nozzle was applied, the air had just barely, and we're talking a very tiny fraction of a second here, begun to flow when there came a godawful firecracker of a noise and Chilly, who like me startles easily and rather spectacularly, I don't call him my brother for nothing, children, EXPLODED into wild and comical action before instantaneously recomposing himself at the side of my now burst tube and brand new bike tire.
It wasn't even blown at the patch, the tube. A brand new spot was blown, and the sidewall of the brand new tire with it, as clean a split as if someone had presented it pre-slashed for my riding inconvenience.
So now my bike sits in my driveway, upside down, its partially reassembled wheels waving in the air like my dog's legs when she's napping, motionless and as sad as I am sitting here at my desk when I long to be out on my nightly midnight ride through the streets of Saratoga.
Sure hope the Bird Lord has another 26" tire, and a tube, in stock. It's a long-ass walk out there.
And now I have a tire story. Yay.
Every once in a while a day comes along that I can only describe as a "theme day."
Today was one. And what a theme.
The main topic of discussion at coffee this morning occasionally foreshadows the rest of my day in tone if not in detailed fact, but today, today if my coffee boys started calling themselves my psychic friends I'd get creeped out and then start a 1-900 line and put Miss Cleo out of business.
I don't remember what got everyone rolling, but the weirdass gods who preside over our conversations decreed that today was the day that the coffee boys would swap horrible tire stories. Tires that blew out on the road to Tulles. Tires that are defective right out of the factory. Tires newly bought from the Bird Lord (he who once or twice a year plays host to a new variety of poultry in his yard - see my poetic entry on New Year's Day), taken out on some of our truly horrifying county roads, stock trails and two-tracks and consequently blowing out the same day and having to be replaced (at a rate only slightly faster than the Bird Lord's own tire replacements). The joy of taunting one of our number, a former CEO of Bridgestone-Firestone, with compliments for the products of Goodyear & Co. Tires, tires, tires.
I sat amongst my friends amused but mostly silent, for I had no tire stories to tell. Clearly, I have led a deprived and colorless life, I thought, and smiled a cold and polite smile to hide my depraved jealousy as gem after gem was brought out, examined, dished over.
Meanwhile, at the store of the Bird Lord, Erin Go-Braless, her sister Karin-Go-Braless, her mother Jane-Go-Braless, and future brother-in-law Gigglepuss were all dickering with said Bird Lord over some inner tubes. They wanted to float around on the surface of the lake where sister, mom and FBIL are camping, and as everyone knows, for aimless floating old truck inner tubes are just the thing (they have since been donated to the Kate's Landing Grown Up Playground and Tent Farm for use of the denizens thereof in the very nearby trickle that in better years we call the North Platte River. My home is almost perfect). I learned of this and giggled at the coincidence.
Then as we were getting dinner (to be consumed at grandpa's picnic table – more memories in the making, always more) the topic of a certain brand new pair of bicycle tires came up, and how they've been sitting behind the dining room table for a few weeks awaiting employment, and wouldn't it be great if KGB and Gigglepuss put them on my bike!
The old tires came off easily. The wheels less so (of course I was out of WD-40). The inner tubes seemed undamaged and so good enough to use again. We were almost to the step where the new tires and the tubes go back on the bike (and discussing how best to get the tubes reinflated, since I currently do not have a bicycle pump) when the Minister of Fun, who fancies himself (correctly) quite the bicycle mechanic, happened along.
His solution of course was to load up the tires and the wheels and haul them into the town shop to air them up. What could be simpler?
But, this is my brother Chilly, and when Chilly and I get together something weird always happens.
First, it turned out that we had managed to introduce minute holes into the inner tubes while we pried the ancient mismatched tires that I'd ridden nearly bald off my bike. No problem; Chilly had a patch kit. We patched away and all was in readiness.
Front wheel: In goes the tube, on goes the nozzle for the big electrical air pump, pssssssssssst! in something like two seconds, the tube and tire are at a perfect and ideal 40 psi. Slick! I remember saying, or words to that effect. We'll be done in no time.
The second tube, also patched in one spot, was neatly in place within the second tire when disaster struck! The nozzle was applied, the air had just barely, and we're talking a very tiny fraction of a second here, begun to flow when there came a godawful firecracker of a noise and Chilly, who like me startles easily and rather spectacularly, I don't call him my brother for nothing, children, EXPLODED into wild and comical action before instantaneously recomposing himself at the side of my now burst tube and brand new bike tire.
It wasn't even blown at the patch, the tube. A brand new spot was blown, and the sidewall of the brand new tire with it, as clean a split as if someone had presented it pre-slashed for my riding inconvenience.
So now my bike sits in my driveway, upside down, its partially reassembled wheels waving in the air like my dog's legs when she's napping, motionless and as sad as I am sitting here at my desk when I long to be out on my nightly midnight ride through the streets of Saratoga.
Sure hope the Bird Lord has another 26" tire, and a tube, in stock. It's a long-ass walk out there.
And now I have a tire story. Yay.
TIME MANAGEMENT, THE L.I.A.N.T. WAY
I just sent in a batch of articles for the 2002 edition of Wyoming Next, a publication aimed at persuading graduating high school seniors and junior college students to stay in our state. These are fun little articles to do and the magazine pays very well, so I'm happy to crank out whatever sort of foolishness they want, but one of my assignments damned near drove me nuts.
They wanted me, of all people, me, your humble blogger, who is also the chamber director, a town council member, a speech coach, etc., to (snicker) (chortle) (guffaw) give the kids some advice on time management.
I know, I know.
So, I started doing what I usually do for this magazine, consulting the business press and whatnot for general interest articles on my subject with an eye towards couching them in the sort of weird semi-youthful/pop-cultural language that Wyo Next and similar publications pay me for, but being the power slacker that I am, the advice I was finding and considering passing on to my young readers made me want to retch.
The horrible combination of the old Protestant Work Ethic combined with the new managerial "stockholders first" philosophy and assorted other modern ills (I just heard about a suit filed against Wal Mart over its policy of requiring sales employees to work overtime off the clock) is creating a whole new class of datebook drones, a tyranny of time commitment to which most of these books and articles I was seeing seems to be preparing students to submit without complaint or proper preparation. Keep 'em too busy, too frantic, too worried over money and they'll never stop to question the pap and crap we're feeding them about what the good life is or what constitutes a good person... aw, I sound like Tyler Durden.
Point is, these kids are going to get enough of that kind of "advice": keep a date book, plan adequate time for projects, give yourself five minute mini-breaks to "recharge your batteries," blah blah blah and they're going to wind up blaming themselves for their migraines, failed marriages, whatever.
So why not plant a little time bomb while I've got their undivided attention?
Such is my internal apologia for the article which follows. I've still, in other words, got a streak of defensiveness about the advice I concocted and which, to hell with it, I'm going to try like hell to follow.
I wonder if they'll actually pay me for this. Somehow, I doubt it's what they were looking for. But here it is, just so it gets published somewhere:
WHO'S IN CHARGE HERE?
Master your calendar instead of letting it master you.
By Kate Sherrod
I’m going to give you a piece of advice that is probably exactly the opposite of what most time management gurus will tell you.
When it comes to time management, the important thing isn’t keeping minute track of appointments or planning out how much time each project is going to take or even focusing on prioritizing deadlines.
The important thing is YOU.
Yeah, it’s a good idea to keep a datebook. It’s awfully embarrassing to have a lunch date scheduled at the very same time you’re supposed to be getting your hair cut AND have a job interview. And if you know it’s going to take you three or four hours to do the research on a project it’s a good idea not to only give yourself 20 minutes.
I’ll tell you something, though: datebooks have a way of becoming tyrants. Even with my secret, which I’m going to share with you, there are still times I open up mine and scream!
There is no shortage of work in the world, no shortage of people who think they have a right to your time, your energy, your resources. And only YOU know how much of all of those things you have.
But here’s the thing: your time, your energy, and your resources are only as valuable as your own current level of well-being. If you’ve been running yourself ragged to meet a deadline or juggle ten commitments or whatever silly pie-in-the-sky promises you’ve made to yourself and others, you’re not going to see any quality in your work OR your play.
TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF FIRST!
That’s right.
TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF FIRST!
Every month, open up your datebook and block out eight hours of sleep a day. Block out at least two hours each day in which you will do NOTHING (you can always decide to do “something” with it later, whether that’s see a movie, take a nap, or go out for a cup of coffee with a friend). Plan the fun stuff FIRST and be RUTHLESS about conflicts with your personal time.
THEN, schedule out your work hours (if you have a regular hourly job), your meetings, your volunteer work, whatever other demands on your time. Believe me, your boss and your fellow volunteers and your friends and your significant others will appreciate you a lot more if you’re showing up to your responsibilities rested, prepared and with a good attitude.
They’ll only call you a slacker out of jealousy.
I just sent in a batch of articles for the 2002 edition of Wyoming Next, a publication aimed at persuading graduating high school seniors and junior college students to stay in our state. These are fun little articles to do and the magazine pays very well, so I'm happy to crank out whatever sort of foolishness they want, but one of my assignments damned near drove me nuts.
They wanted me, of all people, me, your humble blogger, who is also the chamber director, a town council member, a speech coach, etc., to (snicker) (chortle) (guffaw) give the kids some advice on time management.
I know, I know.
So, I started doing what I usually do for this magazine, consulting the business press and whatnot for general interest articles on my subject with an eye towards couching them in the sort of weird semi-youthful/pop-cultural language that Wyo Next and similar publications pay me for, but being the power slacker that I am, the advice I was finding and considering passing on to my young readers made me want to retch.
The horrible combination of the old Protestant Work Ethic combined with the new managerial "stockholders first" philosophy and assorted other modern ills (I just heard about a suit filed against Wal Mart over its policy of requiring sales employees to work overtime off the clock) is creating a whole new class of datebook drones, a tyranny of time commitment to which most of these books and articles I was seeing seems to be preparing students to submit without complaint or proper preparation. Keep 'em too busy, too frantic, too worried over money and they'll never stop to question the pap and crap we're feeding them about what the good life is or what constitutes a good person... aw, I sound like Tyler Durden.
Point is, these kids are going to get enough of that kind of "advice": keep a date book, plan adequate time for projects, give yourself five minute mini-breaks to "recharge your batteries," blah blah blah and they're going to wind up blaming themselves for their migraines, failed marriages, whatever.
So why not plant a little time bomb while I've got their undivided attention?
Such is my internal apologia for the article which follows. I've still, in other words, got a streak of defensiveness about the advice I concocted and which, to hell with it, I'm going to try like hell to follow.
I wonder if they'll actually pay me for this. Somehow, I doubt it's what they were looking for. But here it is, just so it gets published somewhere:
WHO'S IN CHARGE HERE?
Master your calendar instead of letting it master you.
By Kate Sherrod
I’m going to give you a piece of advice that is probably exactly the opposite of what most time management gurus will tell you.
When it comes to time management, the important thing isn’t keeping minute track of appointments or planning out how much time each project is going to take or even focusing on prioritizing deadlines.
The important thing is YOU.
Yeah, it’s a good idea to keep a datebook. It’s awfully embarrassing to have a lunch date scheduled at the very same time you’re supposed to be getting your hair cut AND have a job interview. And if you know it’s going to take you three or four hours to do the research on a project it’s a good idea not to only give yourself 20 minutes.
I’ll tell you something, though: datebooks have a way of becoming tyrants. Even with my secret, which I’m going to share with you, there are still times I open up mine and scream!
There is no shortage of work in the world, no shortage of people who think they have a right to your time, your energy, your resources. And only YOU know how much of all of those things you have.
But here’s the thing: your time, your energy, and your resources are only as valuable as your own current level of well-being. If you’ve been running yourself ragged to meet a deadline or juggle ten commitments or whatever silly pie-in-the-sky promises you’ve made to yourself and others, you’re not going to see any quality in your work OR your play.
TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF FIRST!
That’s right.
TAKE CARE OF YOURSELF FIRST!
Every month, open up your datebook and block out eight hours of sleep a day. Block out at least two hours each day in which you will do NOTHING (you can always decide to do “something” with it later, whether that’s see a movie, take a nap, or go out for a cup of coffee with a friend). Plan the fun stuff FIRST and be RUTHLESS about conflicts with your personal time.
THEN, schedule out your work hours (if you have a regular hourly job), your meetings, your volunteer work, whatever other demands on your time. Believe me, your boss and your fellow volunteers and your friends and your significant others will appreciate you a lot more if you’re showing up to your responsibilities rested, prepared and with a good attitude.
They’ll only call you a slacker out of jealousy.
Sunday, July 07, 2002
SONGS OF YOURSELF
In days of yore was the heyday of the troubador, that traveling bard, that singer and tale teller who regaled village after village with news and ideas and dearly loved stories that never grew old. His coming was remarkable in and of itself; his ability to transform the village green or tavern or throne room where he played into another world entirely made of him a treasure. He could make anyone forget himself awhile as they heard old, old favorites and new little nuggets of his own making with equal credulity, openness, love.
I'm inviting you all to come and hear a 21st century troubador sing. His name is Warren Keldsen, and if he can transform the evening I just had, imagine the wonders he can work for you.
Not everyone is going to react to Warren the way I did; a lot of why he "rang psychic cherries" with me (in David Foster Wallace's phrase) in the Lazy River Cantina Friday night and tonight is based on his choice of songs, his taste in material to cover. With the exception of an unfortunate (but audience-demanded) Jimmy Buffet piece, his every selection was something which spoke to me, of the past, the present, the future that could be or the future that could have been. Good songs, warm and emotional in and of themselves, but given new colors by the way this boy sang them (to be honest, even the ridiculous "Wasted Away in Margaritaville" seemed quietly meditative and worth hearing when he sang it; had I not the instant gut-level hatred of the tune that I have, I might even have enjoyed this). His voice is warm and quiet and intimate, and his style of performing engages absolutely everyone in the room on a personal level so that upwards of 40 people could each believe he was singing to him or her and him or her alone.
He has, too, that undervalued but invaluable talent for gauging exactly when to pull off a "wow" stunt to wake up the distracted drinkers in his midst. He might suddenly pull his guitar behind his head and play backwards, or he might just pull a Hendrix and play it with his teeth or he might just wander out into his audience, or he might just suddenly quiet things down to a whisper. Whatever he does, it's always just what was needed to bring us all back into rapport with him.
Beethoven supposedly once remarked that good music is like hypnotism in its ability to dominate the listener's mind and draw it into the state of the composer's, the performer's. Keldsen has more than a little of this quality, but it never feels like domination or even like seduction (though his Dave Matthews-flavored vocals are very seductive). It's more like sympathy. He has no idea what specific cares a listener has brought into the room where he is playing, and doesn't need to. He can work an alchemy to make them into if not joys than at least things that can be accepted, if not transcended.
I've been to a lot of fucking amazing live performances in my day, seen luminaries like Juliana Hatfield and my beloved King's X and the wryly hilarious Dead Milkmen and the incendiary Sam Black Church and the overwhelming Only Living Witness (not to mention the trippy, hippy Phish) in venues the size of Saratoga's own Lazy River Cantina, but I've never before felt the way this one guy, with his little guitar and his harmonicas and his voice, made me feel this evening. I walked in the door agitated after a street dance plagued with too many cops, too much trash, and music that I was sick of about six if not 14 years ago (the opening trio excepted; that stuff I could stand to hear more of, but please, no more AC/DC covers ever), not to mention plenty of people who were unshakingly convinced that all of the above was somehow my fault.
I left with a wholly different sense of enjoyment and calm and readiness to accept whatever came my way that is really pretty new to me. I had spent two or more hours simply watching and listening to another person pouring out his heart, to me alone it often seemed. Sometimes I sang along with him, sometimes I just sat there silently staring into that quiet middle space between myself and the rest of the world, forgetting myself completely and just serenely, yet passionately, being alive.
Thank you, Warren. Please come again, and often.
In days of yore was the heyday of the troubador, that traveling bard, that singer and tale teller who regaled village after village with news and ideas and dearly loved stories that never grew old. His coming was remarkable in and of itself; his ability to transform the village green or tavern or throne room where he played into another world entirely made of him a treasure. He could make anyone forget himself awhile as they heard old, old favorites and new little nuggets of his own making with equal credulity, openness, love.
I'm inviting you all to come and hear a 21st century troubador sing. His name is Warren Keldsen, and if he can transform the evening I just had, imagine the wonders he can work for you.
Not everyone is going to react to Warren the way I did; a lot of why he "rang psychic cherries" with me (in David Foster Wallace's phrase) in the Lazy River Cantina Friday night and tonight is based on his choice of songs, his taste in material to cover. With the exception of an unfortunate (but audience-demanded) Jimmy Buffet piece, his every selection was something which spoke to me, of the past, the present, the future that could be or the future that could have been. Good songs, warm and emotional in and of themselves, but given new colors by the way this boy sang them (to be honest, even the ridiculous "Wasted Away in Margaritaville" seemed quietly meditative and worth hearing when he sang it; had I not the instant gut-level hatred of the tune that I have, I might even have enjoyed this). His voice is warm and quiet and intimate, and his style of performing engages absolutely everyone in the room on a personal level so that upwards of 40 people could each believe he was singing to him or her and him or her alone.
He has, too, that undervalued but invaluable talent for gauging exactly when to pull off a "wow" stunt to wake up the distracted drinkers in his midst. He might suddenly pull his guitar behind his head and play backwards, or he might just pull a Hendrix and play it with his teeth or he might just wander out into his audience, or he might just suddenly quiet things down to a whisper. Whatever he does, it's always just what was needed to bring us all back into rapport with him.
Beethoven supposedly once remarked that good music is like hypnotism in its ability to dominate the listener's mind and draw it into the state of the composer's, the performer's. Keldsen has more than a little of this quality, but it never feels like domination or even like seduction (though his Dave Matthews-flavored vocals are very seductive). It's more like sympathy. He has no idea what specific cares a listener has brought into the room where he is playing, and doesn't need to. He can work an alchemy to make them into if not joys than at least things that can be accepted, if not transcended.
I've been to a lot of fucking amazing live performances in my day, seen luminaries like Juliana Hatfield and my beloved King's X and the wryly hilarious Dead Milkmen and the incendiary Sam Black Church and the overwhelming Only Living Witness (not to mention the trippy, hippy Phish) in venues the size of Saratoga's own Lazy River Cantina, but I've never before felt the way this one guy, with his little guitar and his harmonicas and his voice, made me feel this evening. I walked in the door agitated after a street dance plagued with too many cops, too much trash, and music that I was sick of about six if not 14 years ago (the opening trio excepted; that stuff I could stand to hear more of, but please, no more AC/DC covers ever), not to mention plenty of people who were unshakingly convinced that all of the above was somehow my fault.
I left with a wholly different sense of enjoyment and calm and readiness to accept whatever came my way that is really pretty new to me. I had spent two or more hours simply watching and listening to another person pouring out his heart, to me alone it often seemed. Sometimes I sang along with him, sometimes I just sat there silently staring into that quiet middle space between myself and the rest of the world, forgetting myself completely and just serenely, yet passionately, being alive.
Thank you, Warren. Please come again, and often.
Saturday, July 06, 2002
ON THE TABLE
I have an ancient-looking, overconstructed, 25-ton monster of a picnic table that my own dear personal grandfather built back in the 1970s sitting now in my backyard. I have a lot of funky heirlooms from him, a man who took regular trips to the dump and came back with more than he took out, a haunter of junk shops and trashday curbs. I have a collection of stunning photos of San Francisco Bay taken before and after the Golden Gate Bridge (my mother's twin sister; she was born in San Francisco the day it opened to car traffic) (now she'll be mad because I've hinted at her age) was built, I have an odd little "fairy" silhouette, I have a funky mechanical bank in the form of a green elephant (the thing to do is to put a coin in its trunk and then press down on its tail to make the trunk move upward to toss the coin into the head), I have a tiny piece of Staffordshire porcelain that has survived both his life and mine... but the picnic table... the picnic table...
How many good summer gatherings has this table seen? When I was a child all of the highway patrolmen in the area used to bring their families to at least one big barbecue in my parents' yard. We'd eat at that table in shifts, the kids wandering off to run through the sprinkler or play on the swings or play badminton (nothing is better for raising a neighborhood of happy kids than at least one good big yard, and ours was it). I used one of the long, sturdy benches for sunbathing back when I was still deluded enough to think I could tan. My graduation dinner was at that table, as was my sister's.
Now the table is mine; since my father built a deck onto his house and set up new patio furniture there, the old picnic table was consigned to leaning up against the far back fence, where it would be in the way of the lawnmower as little as possible.
I'm delighted beyond words to give it a home. It was hell beyond words humping that plutonium-dense thing down the hill and across the water, but I'm delighted to give it a home.
The years have taken their toll on it, though. It's as solid as ever, but as my splintered hands told me when we moved it, it needed some TLC. Scraping, sanding, new paint.
Scraping soon seemed a redundancy; nightly gatherings on my lawn on the river saw sometimes as many as eight people gathered at the table, idly peeling off long strips of ancient redwood paint as we talked and sipped and stared out at the water or watched the birds at the feeder (more about them in a minute!) (grr!). With each passing night, my poor table was the worse for the wear, its ancient grey wood exposed to the surprise rainstorms and the targeting apparatus of the birds recycling their seed (see?).
So I decided this week to give it the care it had long needed, bought some scrapers and brushes and a gallon of paint in a color called "Warm Port" (trust me to go for the wine shade. But I fell for the color itself before the name, honest! It's a beautiful, rich hue, and I'm glad as hell I have a lot of leftover paint. I just have, now, to pick a wall...). I dropped them off, went to work, figured my summer guest, Erin-Go-Braless, the Punk Martha Stewart, and I could scrape the table Friday evening, paint it Saturday (today), and be enjoying it after the conclusion of this weekend's arts festival Sunday.
I spoke better than I knew when I called her the Punk Martha Stewart, however, because when I came home from work yesterday in a desperate rush – I had to shower and change and girl up for the arts festival gala! – my grandfather's table was almost unrecognizable in its new coats of paint. It's gorgeous. And it was already about half dry!
I might have let myself be put out that I didn't get to work on grandpa's table myself, but I realized that my friend had done this out of love for me and for my home, and in the process had given me a whole new reason to cherish this table (yes, sentimental of me, but we writers often are, you know). I'll never be able to look at it without thinking of my crazy grandfather, my best friend and his fiance who ate their first meal in Saratoga there, and the Punk Martha Stewart. That's pretty amazing.
And just as an aside, that color was really the perfect choice. I can't wait for my parents to see it, they who have forever forbidden me from choosing paint colors for their place after I fell for Teton Blue while we were getting ready to re-do their bedroom. The shade was lovely, a perfect aqua (my mother's favorite color) but what looked bright and somewhat airy on the card was very, very deep on their walls and made of their already poorly lit bedroom a cave that my father does admit was "great for sleeping late" but otherwise just didn't do at all! Perhaps I have redeemed myself with grandpa's table.
Of course, by the time they get back from vacation, it will be despicably speckled by those damnable, ungrateful birds. Do you think they'd get the hint if I cut off their seed supply for a day or two?
I have an ancient-looking, overconstructed, 25-ton monster of a picnic table that my own dear personal grandfather built back in the 1970s sitting now in my backyard. I have a lot of funky heirlooms from him, a man who took regular trips to the dump and came back with more than he took out, a haunter of junk shops and trashday curbs. I have a collection of stunning photos of San Francisco Bay taken before and after the Golden Gate Bridge (my mother's twin sister; she was born in San Francisco the day it opened to car traffic) (now she'll be mad because I've hinted at her age) was built, I have an odd little "fairy" silhouette, I have a funky mechanical bank in the form of a green elephant (the thing to do is to put a coin in its trunk and then press down on its tail to make the trunk move upward to toss the coin into the head), I have a tiny piece of Staffordshire porcelain that has survived both his life and mine... but the picnic table... the picnic table...
How many good summer gatherings has this table seen? When I was a child all of the highway patrolmen in the area used to bring their families to at least one big barbecue in my parents' yard. We'd eat at that table in shifts, the kids wandering off to run through the sprinkler or play on the swings or play badminton (nothing is better for raising a neighborhood of happy kids than at least one good big yard, and ours was it). I used one of the long, sturdy benches for sunbathing back when I was still deluded enough to think I could tan. My graduation dinner was at that table, as was my sister's.
Now the table is mine; since my father built a deck onto his house and set up new patio furniture there, the old picnic table was consigned to leaning up against the far back fence, where it would be in the way of the lawnmower as little as possible.
I'm delighted beyond words to give it a home. It was hell beyond words humping that plutonium-dense thing down the hill and across the water, but I'm delighted to give it a home.
The years have taken their toll on it, though. It's as solid as ever, but as my splintered hands told me when we moved it, it needed some TLC. Scraping, sanding, new paint.
Scraping soon seemed a redundancy; nightly gatherings on my lawn on the river saw sometimes as many as eight people gathered at the table, idly peeling off long strips of ancient redwood paint as we talked and sipped and stared out at the water or watched the birds at the feeder (more about them in a minute!) (grr!). With each passing night, my poor table was the worse for the wear, its ancient grey wood exposed to the surprise rainstorms and the targeting apparatus of the birds recycling their seed (see?).
So I decided this week to give it the care it had long needed, bought some scrapers and brushes and a gallon of paint in a color called "Warm Port" (trust me to go for the wine shade. But I fell for the color itself before the name, honest! It's a beautiful, rich hue, and I'm glad as hell I have a lot of leftover paint. I just have, now, to pick a wall...). I dropped them off, went to work, figured my summer guest, Erin-Go-Braless, the Punk Martha Stewart, and I could scrape the table Friday evening, paint it Saturday (today), and be enjoying it after the conclusion of this weekend's arts festival Sunday.
I spoke better than I knew when I called her the Punk Martha Stewart, however, because when I came home from work yesterday in a desperate rush – I had to shower and change and girl up for the arts festival gala! – my grandfather's table was almost unrecognizable in its new coats of paint. It's gorgeous. And it was already about half dry!
I might have let myself be put out that I didn't get to work on grandpa's table myself, but I realized that my friend had done this out of love for me and for my home, and in the process had given me a whole new reason to cherish this table (yes, sentimental of me, but we writers often are, you know). I'll never be able to look at it without thinking of my crazy grandfather, my best friend and his fiance who ate their first meal in Saratoga there, and the Punk Martha Stewart. That's pretty amazing.
And just as an aside, that color was really the perfect choice. I can't wait for my parents to see it, they who have forever forbidden me from choosing paint colors for their place after I fell for Teton Blue while we were getting ready to re-do their bedroom. The shade was lovely, a perfect aqua (my mother's favorite color) but what looked bright and somewhat airy on the card was very, very deep on their walls and made of their already poorly lit bedroom a cave that my father does admit was "great for sleeping late" but otherwise just didn't do at all! Perhaps I have redeemed myself with grandpa's table.
Of course, by the time they get back from vacation, it will be despicably speckled by those damnable, ungrateful birds. Do you think they'd get the hint if I cut off their seed supply for a day or two?
Friday, July 05, 2002
MUSINGS ON THE FOURTH
I often joke, somewhat darkly, that our survival as a town is still too dependent on our ability to seduce people from far away into coming here and leaving their money behind. I've often felt a little icky about this, both for what it says about the sustainability of the very enjoyable lives we've all built here and for the feeling I sometimes get that I'm picking people's pockets (then I think well, otherwise they'd be spending that money to make The Mouse's stockholders richer or something and I feel a little better).
Speaking of The Mouse, I'm sure Disneyland's hokey, sad, vaguely spooky "Main Street USA" put on a helluva Fourth of July yesterday, but it had nothing on ours. It was one of the longest parades in Saratoga history (the only two longer ones in recent memory – by which I mean my memory, of course – were the bicentennial parade in 1976 and Saratoga's centennial parade in 1986, the latter involving pretty much every single resident in the town in some fashion, 2000 people all throwing candy at like one tourist family's children. It was awesome), followed by one of the best shootouts (though perhaps not as enjoyable for some, i.e. me, who had to observe most of it out of "dead" eyes sprawled out in a very warm and heavy "period" dress on hot asphalt in the middle of the street. There was actually a puddle of sweat on the pavement when I got up after the shenanigans were over!) (yes, of course it was sweat, don't be ridiculous!). And while once again it seemed like everyone who lives here was in the parade in some fashion (most of my coffee buddies turned out with the "Saratoga Hookers and Slicers" the meaning of whose name I'll leave to your imaginations to decipher, dear readers), there were still happy throngs all along the street, and a monster crowd for the shootout.
I missed the beginning of the parade for reasons I'll get to in a moment, but I've been told by visitors and locals alike that it was very emotional for all when the American Legion's color guard started things off, and the town together said the Pledge of Allegiance at the intersection of Bridge Street and the highway. We really do have something to thank Osama for, I think, all humor aside. In a town that often acts as though the world sort of drops away at the city limits sign, it's always a remarkable and a wonderful surprise to be reminded in this way that we are, indeed, part of something larger and greater than our fun little town.
I wish I could have seen it.
Unfortunately, somehow or other some wires got crossed between me and the General (not her real name), the tall and stately, no-nonsense redhead who takes charge and gets the parade entries lined up for both this and our yearly Christmas parades. She told me I had done a pretty good job on my preliminary line-up (a copy of which I had already thoughtfully provided to our parade announcer), but there were some changes needed to be made (including the relocation of the enormous, 16-vehicle "Hoem Fleet", who lined themselves up on a different side street from the one the General and I had decided they should and so, for clarity's sake, needed a whole different position in the parade line-up). We made them, scribbling furiously on my list (thank goodness I left huge spaces between entries).
Then it was 10:50 a.m., time for the final check-over. I had my bicycle, so logically I was the one to do it. With my list in one hand and the bag with the shoot-out costume balanced on my shoulder, I began my ride from the front to the back of the 48-entry line-up. Check, check, check, oh, they're still out of order but it doesn't matter, I can explain it to the announcer, check, check... oh my god, they're moving up! They're going to smoosh one another! But no! They're turning onto the street up there! Oh god! She's started the parade already!
So, like the wicked witch of the west, I began the ride of my life, down little-used back streets, through alleys, over lawns... I actually jumped a very small jump on my bike for the first time ever, my skirts billowing outwards and showing the feral cats my gams as I flew along. I believe I even broke the speed limit, but shh!
Of course the announcer had to make a witty remark about my approach.
I didn't notice the crowds until I was ensconced in the back of his pickup, ready to be his nomenclatura. What crowds! Some familiar faces, but most I had never seen before. People had traveled from far and wide to watch us celebrate the Fourth!
And then I realized what a powerful thing it is to these people, just knowing we are here. They can only come for a week or two to enjoy what we take for granted, but the knowledge that we exist, that somewhere a real small town still functions and works together and is full of people who feel genuine friendship for one another and are ready to act quite ridiculously in public to share that... it sustains those who have to work and live far away and can only dream about us. We are the keepers of this last, semi-imaginary world that was once considered the quintessence of American life. And at no time is this more evident than on the Fourth of July, parade, shoot-out, watermelons and all.
It's good to be here.
I often joke, somewhat darkly, that our survival as a town is still too dependent on our ability to seduce people from far away into coming here and leaving their money behind. I've often felt a little icky about this, both for what it says about the sustainability of the very enjoyable lives we've all built here and for the feeling I sometimes get that I'm picking people's pockets (then I think well, otherwise they'd be spending that money to make The Mouse's stockholders richer or something and I feel a little better).
Speaking of The Mouse, I'm sure Disneyland's hokey, sad, vaguely spooky "Main Street USA" put on a helluva Fourth of July yesterday, but it had nothing on ours. It was one of the longest parades in Saratoga history (the only two longer ones in recent memory – by which I mean my memory, of course – were the bicentennial parade in 1976 and Saratoga's centennial parade in 1986, the latter involving pretty much every single resident in the town in some fashion, 2000 people all throwing candy at like one tourist family's children. It was awesome), followed by one of the best shootouts (though perhaps not as enjoyable for some, i.e. me, who had to observe most of it out of "dead" eyes sprawled out in a very warm and heavy "period" dress on hot asphalt in the middle of the street. There was actually a puddle of sweat on the pavement when I got up after the shenanigans were over!) (yes, of course it was sweat, don't be ridiculous!). And while once again it seemed like everyone who lives here was in the parade in some fashion (most of my coffee buddies turned out with the "Saratoga Hookers and Slicers" the meaning of whose name I'll leave to your imaginations to decipher, dear readers), there were still happy throngs all along the street, and a monster crowd for the shootout.
I missed the beginning of the parade for reasons I'll get to in a moment, but I've been told by visitors and locals alike that it was very emotional for all when the American Legion's color guard started things off, and the town together said the Pledge of Allegiance at the intersection of Bridge Street and the highway. We really do have something to thank Osama for, I think, all humor aside. In a town that often acts as though the world sort of drops away at the city limits sign, it's always a remarkable and a wonderful surprise to be reminded in this way that we are, indeed, part of something larger and greater than our fun little town.
I wish I could have seen it.
Unfortunately, somehow or other some wires got crossed between me and the General (not her real name), the tall and stately, no-nonsense redhead who takes charge and gets the parade entries lined up for both this and our yearly Christmas parades. She told me I had done a pretty good job on my preliminary line-up (a copy of which I had already thoughtfully provided to our parade announcer), but there were some changes needed to be made (including the relocation of the enormous, 16-vehicle "Hoem Fleet", who lined themselves up on a different side street from the one the General and I had decided they should and so, for clarity's sake, needed a whole different position in the parade line-up). We made them, scribbling furiously on my list (thank goodness I left huge spaces between entries).
Then it was 10:50 a.m., time for the final check-over. I had my bicycle, so logically I was the one to do it. With my list in one hand and the bag with the shoot-out costume balanced on my shoulder, I began my ride from the front to the back of the 48-entry line-up. Check, check, check, oh, they're still out of order but it doesn't matter, I can explain it to the announcer, check, check... oh my god, they're moving up! They're going to smoosh one another! But no! They're turning onto the street up there! Oh god! She's started the parade already!
So, like the wicked witch of the west, I began the ride of my life, down little-used back streets, through alleys, over lawns... I actually jumped a very small jump on my bike for the first time ever, my skirts billowing outwards and showing the feral cats my gams as I flew along. I believe I even broke the speed limit, but shh!
Of course the announcer had to make a witty remark about my approach.
I didn't notice the crowds until I was ensconced in the back of his pickup, ready to be his nomenclatura. What crowds! Some familiar faces, but most I had never seen before. People had traveled from far and wide to watch us celebrate the Fourth!
And then I realized what a powerful thing it is to these people, just knowing we are here. They can only come for a week or two to enjoy what we take for granted, but the knowledge that we exist, that somewhere a real small town still functions and works together and is full of people who feel genuine friendship for one another and are ready to act quite ridiculously in public to share that... it sustains those who have to work and live far away and can only dream about us. We are the keepers of this last, semi-imaginary world that was once considered the quintessence of American life. And at no time is this more evident than on the Fourth of July, parade, shoot-out, watermelons and all.
It's good to be here.
Thursday, July 04, 2002
INSTEAD OF 100 FEET OF THE ZCHIZZ...
"Celebrate your country's independence by blowing up a small part of it!"
- Apu from the Simpsons
Well, for obvious reasons there aren't going to be a lot of fireworks in Saratoga this year, surrounded as we are on three sides by the Medicine Bow National Forest (the biggest and one of the oldest of those) and bounded on the fourth side by high, dry sagebrush flats. We get some – that summer camp for spoiled grown ups, the Old Baldy Club, has twisted some county-level arms and gotten a permit for its traditional display (which we less spoiled grown-ups watch in happy drunken comfort from the porch of the Whistle Pig Saloon south of town – a bar with a view is a fine, fine thing).
Most of those twisted county-level arms will be waving from cars of various vintages in my parade in a few hours (I say "my" parade because pretty much all I've done the last few weeks is make phone calls, fill out street closure permits, try to keep our zealous police chief from harassing the Sierra Madre Muzzleloaders plumb out of the line-up – traditionally they fire off their black powder rifles, and there is of course an anti-firearms ordinance on the books! – and persuade clubs, organizations, businesses and assorted other weirdos to enter the thing). It's an election year for two county commissioners, the county clerk, the county attorney, the county assessor, the county coroner (but strangely, as usual, no one wants his job), the clerk of district court, the county treasurer... also for Saratoga's mayor and two council seats (not mine, mercifully. I'm not sure I could run this rodeo and campaign too. How I'll do it in two years I don't know. Maybe by then my hobo dreams will have come true)... might actually be three council seats, since a third member of our council has decided he needs to be county treasurer and is running for that... but I digress.
There are five different mounted groups, but fortunately no one marching, so no one's shoes will be soiled from stepping in road apples.
Once again, I have failed to find us a marching band. The high school kids are all scattered at various sports camps and summer jobs, and the various and sundry amateur bluegrass, rock, country and jug bands that occasionally play out here could none of them be persuaded to march. Okay, I fibbed about the jug bands; there aren't any. But wouldn't it be cool if there was one?
There is a bevy of antique and classic cars. There is an avenue of flags. As far as I know, there is no one planning to wander through the parade this year with a bustle and a super soaker, but parade crashers do happen, they do...
And apres le parade, we have us a cowboy shoot-out, once again featuring your humble blogger. This year's theme is selling off surplus girls from one of the many whorehouses that comprise some of the more colorful elements of Saratoga's past. It's a whole wacky slate of amateur dramatics culminating in violent simulated death for many, including me! So far, the police chief has been too busy picking on the muzzleloaders to turn his attention to us – we use real pistols with blanks (and don't think the fate of Brandon Lee isn't on my mind as I stare down the gun barrel wielded by my tiny accountant...)
As for whom I'm playing, that is still a secret. Last year, I played the Sewer King's grandmother (I'm sure the resemblance was astonishing) (basically, I pretended I was his mom, whom everyone assures me is turning out just like dear old Pearl) in a re-creation of Saratoga's one and only bank robbery, which had taken place 75 years previously. She was a witness and kept her cool and even gave a detailed report to the ding-a-ling newspaper reporter who had been busy writing bad poetry through the actual incident (according to the script).
How in the world am I going to top that? Well, I'll tell you later. Rex Cloacae wanted to know but is blowing off the whole thing to play golf, and if he thinks he's going to find out here well nanny nanny boo boo to him and any of you others he might have deputized to spy it out!
And after the shoot-out? I've got a date with some politicos to hoist some pints in a local pub. Even I get an afternoon off once in a while... If you can call drinking with county official wannabes a day off...
"Celebrate your country's independence by blowing up a small part of it!"
- Apu from the Simpsons
Well, for obvious reasons there aren't going to be a lot of fireworks in Saratoga this year, surrounded as we are on three sides by the Medicine Bow National Forest (the biggest and one of the oldest of those) and bounded on the fourth side by high, dry sagebrush flats. We get some – that summer camp for spoiled grown ups, the Old Baldy Club, has twisted some county-level arms and gotten a permit for its traditional display (which we less spoiled grown-ups watch in happy drunken comfort from the porch of the Whistle Pig Saloon south of town – a bar with a view is a fine, fine thing).
Most of those twisted county-level arms will be waving from cars of various vintages in my parade in a few hours (I say "my" parade because pretty much all I've done the last few weeks is make phone calls, fill out street closure permits, try to keep our zealous police chief from harassing the Sierra Madre Muzzleloaders plumb out of the line-up – traditionally they fire off their black powder rifles, and there is of course an anti-firearms ordinance on the books! – and persuade clubs, organizations, businesses and assorted other weirdos to enter the thing). It's an election year for two county commissioners, the county clerk, the county attorney, the county assessor, the county coroner (but strangely, as usual, no one wants his job), the clerk of district court, the county treasurer... also for Saratoga's mayor and two council seats (not mine, mercifully. I'm not sure I could run this rodeo and campaign too. How I'll do it in two years I don't know. Maybe by then my hobo dreams will have come true)... might actually be three council seats, since a third member of our council has decided he needs to be county treasurer and is running for that... but I digress.
There are five different mounted groups, but fortunately no one marching, so no one's shoes will be soiled from stepping in road apples.
Once again, I have failed to find us a marching band. The high school kids are all scattered at various sports camps and summer jobs, and the various and sundry amateur bluegrass, rock, country and jug bands that occasionally play out here could none of them be persuaded to march. Okay, I fibbed about the jug bands; there aren't any. But wouldn't it be cool if there was one?
There is a bevy of antique and classic cars. There is an avenue of flags. As far as I know, there is no one planning to wander through the parade this year with a bustle and a super soaker, but parade crashers do happen, they do...
And apres le parade, we have us a cowboy shoot-out, once again featuring your humble blogger. This year's theme is selling off surplus girls from one of the many whorehouses that comprise some of the more colorful elements of Saratoga's past. It's a whole wacky slate of amateur dramatics culminating in violent simulated death for many, including me! So far, the police chief has been too busy picking on the muzzleloaders to turn his attention to us – we use real pistols with blanks (and don't think the fate of Brandon Lee isn't on my mind as I stare down the gun barrel wielded by my tiny accountant...)
As for whom I'm playing, that is still a secret. Last year, I played the Sewer King's grandmother (I'm sure the resemblance was astonishing) (basically, I pretended I was his mom, whom everyone assures me is turning out just like dear old Pearl) in a re-creation of Saratoga's one and only bank robbery, which had taken place 75 years previously. She was a witness and kept her cool and even gave a detailed report to the ding-a-ling newspaper reporter who had been busy writing bad poetry through the actual incident (according to the script).
How in the world am I going to top that? Well, I'll tell you later. Rex Cloacae wanted to know but is blowing off the whole thing to play golf, and if he thinks he's going to find out here well nanny nanny boo boo to him and any of you others he might have deputized to spy it out!
And after the shoot-out? I've got a date with some politicos to hoist some pints in a local pub. Even I get an afternoon off once in a while... If you can call drinking with county official wannabes a day off...
Monday, July 01, 2002
SMALL WORLD MOMENT...BIG TIME!
Lesson to my out-of-state readers out there: If you know one person from Wyoming, you pretty much have a direct connection to everyone else from here. The old saw about six degrees of separation between one person and everyone else on the planet is maybe a two-degree pocket knife for us.
Case in point: A dude in Chicago, whom I have never met personally but with whom I've been arguing ridiculously for many years in the fabulous forum that is Secular Johnson, recently hosted an NBA draft party (I know, it's hard for me to believe, too, but some people are so sports-crazed that they organize parties to watch, e.g., contract signings for new players, press conferences about niggling little rule changes, and player drafts. And most of whom, it seems, I know in some fashion. Ironic for someone who only watches sports every four years, isn't it?), the hilarious photos from which one of the party-goers, Brickyard (not his real name), threw up on a web page for us to gape at today.
I know almost all of these people personally and do miss them very much the 51 weeks out of the year when I'm not with them, so naturally I surfed over to have a look.
There was one handsome dude in one of the pictures whom I simultaneously did and did not recognize. It drove me crazy. I know everyone on Secular Johnson (affectionatly known as "the 'J") by sight at least, even the ones I haven't met, because we're always sharing wacky photos – but this guy has never made a 'J shot yet. So he must be just some random NBA fan the guys know, right?
Well, yes and no.
See, finally I just had to know who the hell he was. There was something about him (besides his comely appearance and obvious good taste – while everyone else in the photos was drinking Rolling Rock or some similar swill, this man was elegantly quaffing a Newcastle Brown Ale).
The reply came back a while later. His name is Ron, and he's from Wyoming!
Whoa!
A little later, the newest member of Secular Johnson, Angie Warhol (LIANT readers may recall her as the old friend from miserable adolescence who recently tracked down this website, and thus your humble correspondent, via Google) chimed in, with something of a non-sequitir, namely, did he go to Princeton?
Well yes, yes he did. Why in the world did she ask?
Well, Ms. Warhol was more on the ball than I was. Having HSI (Nerd Camp) on the brain as she did, she immediately made the connection that I would have found absurd though I guess I shouldn't find it so these days after simultaneous surprise visits from Erin-Go-Braless, FutureGrrl, Tron and Toughpacque Bougur, right?
This guy was one of our "peer counselors" at Nerd Camp!
So, as I say, if you know one of us, chances are you know us all. Which means that you, too, can claim acquaintance and possibly ask the odd favor of our current Vice President, who used to share campaign fundraisers with my own dear personal dad back in the day.
Just do me a favor and don't mention my name when you do. Use Ron's! Uncle Richard always did like him best.
Lesson to my out-of-state readers out there: If you know one person from Wyoming, you pretty much have a direct connection to everyone else from here. The old saw about six degrees of separation between one person and everyone else on the planet is maybe a two-degree pocket knife for us.
Case in point: A dude in Chicago, whom I have never met personally but with whom I've been arguing ridiculously for many years in the fabulous forum that is Secular Johnson, recently hosted an NBA draft party (I know, it's hard for me to believe, too, but some people are so sports-crazed that they organize parties to watch, e.g., contract signings for new players, press conferences about niggling little rule changes, and player drafts. And most of whom, it seems, I know in some fashion. Ironic for someone who only watches sports every four years, isn't it?), the hilarious photos from which one of the party-goers, Brickyard (not his real name), threw up on a web page for us to gape at today.
I know almost all of these people personally and do miss them very much the 51 weeks out of the year when I'm not with them, so naturally I surfed over to have a look.
There was one handsome dude in one of the pictures whom I simultaneously did and did not recognize. It drove me crazy. I know everyone on Secular Johnson (affectionatly known as "the 'J") by sight at least, even the ones I haven't met, because we're always sharing wacky photos – but this guy has never made a 'J shot yet. So he must be just some random NBA fan the guys know, right?
Well, yes and no.
See, finally I just had to know who the hell he was. There was something about him (besides his comely appearance and obvious good taste – while everyone else in the photos was drinking Rolling Rock or some similar swill, this man was elegantly quaffing a Newcastle Brown Ale).
The reply came back a while later. His name is Ron, and he's from Wyoming!
Whoa!
A little later, the newest member of Secular Johnson, Angie Warhol (LIANT readers may recall her as the old friend from miserable adolescence who recently tracked down this website, and thus your humble correspondent, via Google) chimed in, with something of a non-sequitir, namely, did he go to Princeton?
Well yes, yes he did. Why in the world did she ask?
Well, Ms. Warhol was more on the ball than I was. Having HSI (Nerd Camp) on the brain as she did, she immediately made the connection that I would have found absurd though I guess I shouldn't find it so these days after simultaneous surprise visits from Erin-Go-Braless, FutureGrrl, Tron and Toughpacque Bougur, right?
This guy was one of our "peer counselors" at Nerd Camp!
So, as I say, if you know one of us, chances are you know us all. Which means that you, too, can claim acquaintance and possibly ask the odd favor of our current Vice President, who used to share campaign fundraisers with my own dear personal dad back in the day.
Just do me a favor and don't mention my name when you do. Use Ron's! Uncle Richard always did like him best.
Saturday, June 29, 2002
SO, I AM SURE...
That you've all been eagerly waiting to hear the outcome of the meeting of the minds that took place on the porch last night, right? Well, wonder no further.
We, um, wrote a song. For that band in Chicago to play. Soon it will be a worldwide hit. Your children will be singing it. Really.
REVERSE JESUS
I was born up in a palace
To a skanky whore named Alice,
Guzzling whisky from a chalice
That was shaped just like a... cup.
I never left Chicago
And I'm stinky with bravado
And I never talk to God, though
I know where to look him up.
Oh, there are so many reasons
Why I am REVERSE JESUS
I turn wine back into water
And I love "Welcome Back Kotter"
When I play on teeter totters
I just fall down on the job.
I like to beat up kids
And I don't hang out with Yids.
I wear makeup on my eyelids
And enjoy corn on the cob.
Oh, there are so many reasons
Why I am REVERSE JESUS
I turn bread back into stones
And I'm bound to jump your bones.
But right now I have a jones
For some pork skins and a beer.
My blessings are like curses
And I never talk in verses.
Instead I ride in hearses,
Where I gamble, flirt and leer.
Oh, there are so many reasons
Why I am REVERSE JESUS!
I was born on Easter Sunday,
And I'll die on Christmas Monday
And I know that there'll be one day
When I'll kick some Roman ass!
I'll get drunk with Pontius Pilate
And we'll cause a little riot
And completely blow our diet,
Eating, farting, being crass.
Oh, there are so many reasons
Why I am REVERSE JESUS!
Then to Herod's house I'll roll
To turn diamonds into coal.
And we'll both just smoke a bowl
And I'll walk underneath his lake.
But he told me something funny.
Says he's running out of money.
But I told him hey now, honey,
Life is fine, we're on the take.
Oh, there are so many reasons
Why I am REVERSE JESUS
We'll just call up all our wives
We'll have the time of all our lives
Selling Ronco Ginsu knives
And making prank calls to the Pope.
Yes, Reverse Jesus is my name
And I do not want your fame.
And think disciples LAME.
Now go pee up a rope.
Oh, there are so many reasons
Why I am REVERSE JESUS!
That you've all been eagerly waiting to hear the outcome of the meeting of the minds that took place on the porch last night, right? Well, wonder no further.
We, um, wrote a song. For that band in Chicago to play. Soon it will be a worldwide hit. Your children will be singing it. Really.
REVERSE JESUS
I was born up in a palace
To a skanky whore named Alice,
Guzzling whisky from a chalice
That was shaped just like a... cup.
I never left Chicago
And I'm stinky with bravado
And I never talk to God, though
I know where to look him up.
Oh, there are so many reasons
Why I am REVERSE JESUS
I turn wine back into water
And I love "Welcome Back Kotter"
When I play on teeter totters
I just fall down on the job.
I like to beat up kids
And I don't hang out with Yids.
I wear makeup on my eyelids
And enjoy corn on the cob.
Oh, there are so many reasons
Why I am REVERSE JESUS
I turn bread back into stones
And I'm bound to jump your bones.
But right now I have a jones
For some pork skins and a beer.
My blessings are like curses
And I never talk in verses.
Instead I ride in hearses,
Where I gamble, flirt and leer.
Oh, there are so many reasons
Why I am REVERSE JESUS!
I was born on Easter Sunday,
And I'll die on Christmas Monday
And I know that there'll be one day
When I'll kick some Roman ass!
I'll get drunk with Pontius Pilate
And we'll cause a little riot
And completely blow our diet,
Eating, farting, being crass.
Oh, there are so many reasons
Why I am REVERSE JESUS!
Then to Herod's house I'll roll
To turn diamonds into coal.
And we'll both just smoke a bowl
And I'll walk underneath his lake.
But he told me something funny.
Says he's running out of money.
But I told him hey now, honey,
Life is fine, we're on the take.
Oh, there are so many reasons
Why I am REVERSE JESUS
We'll just call up all our wives
We'll have the time of all our lives
Selling Ronco Ginsu knives
And making prank calls to the Pope.
Yes, Reverse Jesus is my name
And I do not want your fame.
And think disciples LAME.
Now go pee up a rope.
Oh, there are so many reasons
Why I am REVERSE JESUS!
Friday, June 28, 2002
QUICK AND DIRTY...
...And probably about to get dirtier.
It's the last Friday in June and no one I know has accomplished anything of worth today, not even the golfers (it's windy and kind of clouded over, with the ever-present teasing threat of rain but yeah right), and I'm ten minutes away from racing home to shower off the sweat of the day (it's hard work sitting here reading e-mail and doing stupid bookkeeping chores) and get girled up a bit for a hard night's holding down the floorboards on the porch of the sometimes-famous Saratoga Inn home of some of the state's finest microbrew (and he has the trophies to prove it, does our pal E.J. Allen, all praise be to his name) and some really comfortable adirondack chairs.
And it's going to get stupid out, because accompanying me are a whole flotilla of friends from other places who suddenly, magically appeared here this week without warning, including FutureGrrrl, Tron, Erin-Go-Braless (not their real names) and, I just learned, yet another special guest star, Toughpacque Bougur, sometime drummer for the greatest rock band in the world (and the only ones ever to record songs I wrote, namely one about Saratoga's own Donut Ranch and, well, another one), Gyrating Bhtch.
Just another crappy evening in paradise...
...And probably about to get dirtier.
It's the last Friday in June and no one I know has accomplished anything of worth today, not even the golfers (it's windy and kind of clouded over, with the ever-present teasing threat of rain but yeah right), and I'm ten minutes away from racing home to shower off the sweat of the day (it's hard work sitting here reading e-mail and doing stupid bookkeeping chores) and get girled up a bit for a hard night's holding down the floorboards on the porch of the sometimes-famous Saratoga Inn home of some of the state's finest microbrew (and he has the trophies to prove it, does our pal E.J. Allen, all praise be to his name) and some really comfortable adirondack chairs.
And it's going to get stupid out, because accompanying me are a whole flotilla of friends from other places who suddenly, magically appeared here this week without warning, including FutureGrrrl, Tron, Erin-Go-Braless (not their real names) and, I just learned, yet another special guest star, Toughpacque Bougur, sometime drummer for the greatest rock band in the world (and the only ones ever to record songs I wrote, namely one about Saratoga's own Donut Ranch and, well, another one), Gyrating Bhtch.
Just another crappy evening in paradise...
Thursday, June 27, 2002
TOURISTS AND OTHER GENIUSES...
This is... perhaps a little painful to write about since I’m pretty much supposed to be nice to tourists for a living, but sometimes one just has to shout out something rude and inappropriate from the rooftops...
...Unless one has a weblog!
Last week I came upon a local outfitter friend of mine, we’ll call him Johnboat (not his real name), sitting chuckling ruefully to himself over a bottle of canoe beer. He’d just gotten done telling Oscar the Grouchy Bartender (not his real name) a real whopper, one that he considered the best Stupid Tourist Quote ever.
“Kate,” he said to me, still sort of snorting and trying hard not to snarf his beer, “You’ll appreciate this.
“True story.
“I am SO not making this up.
“Really. This really happened.”
“OK, Johnboat, I’m ready. Tell me what really happened,” I said, or words to that effect.
“I took a group of people down the river today, and this one guy, this real know it all, who was driving his wife crazy showing her how to tie really bad knots and giving her horrible casting advice to cover up the fact that she was catching more fish than he was – you know the type I’m talking about...”
I nodded, watching Oscar still sputtering, too. This must be some story, I remember thinking.
“Well, as we were pulling out at Foote, he came over to me – and by the way, the bastard never did tip me – and said... he said...”
(Pause while Johnboat collected himself once again and Oscar, turning pink, had to leave the vicinity – he may have been making for the bathroom. This must be some punchline, I remember thinking)
“Hey John, hunter to hunter, you can tell me ‘cause I have a pretty good idea already: at what elevation in this part of the state do the mule deer turn into elk?”
Well, it took me a while to recover from this remark, which smacked me on the noggin and left me sort of stunned with my eyes whirling like those dealies in a slot machine, but then I had to burst his bubble.
I had a better one, you see.
A visitor had come into my office that same afternoon who was really eager to know what our utility bills are for heating the hot pool! No really! I could tell him! He was sure it would be very hard for me to justify such a staggering sum, to my constituents but I could trust him not to reveal it to any of them!
He left very angrily after repeated attempts on my part to explain to him that the changing rooms, like our downtown sidwalks, are geothermally heated. That wasn’t the point, you see. He wanted to know what it cost to heat the water in the pool.
Oscar and Johnboat agreed that this was even better.
Then Johnboat challenged me to a friendly game of billiards, which I of course lost handily (but with great aplomb) and the story just sort of peters out from there...
...Until today. When I finally drifted into my office at my usual shamefully late hour, there was a man at my desk, a man who looked sort of familiar. I’m not 100% on this, but I’m pretty sure it was my interrogator of the previous week! And he was using my computer!
(Note to out of town readers: Since no retail business downtown has yet cottoned on to the potential increase in foot traffic that would be afforded by providing public e-mail access in a store [HINT HINT HINT] [Hopeless, I know, but I’ve got to keep trying], the chamber office offers this service)
And he used it for a very long time.
And finally, he left, paying over his customary $5 (yes, people! E-mail has become such a preoccupation with travelers that most of them will PAY just for a chance to check it! HINT HINT HINT!) and winking as he bid us cheery-bye.
I sat down to get to work... and he had left FIVE browser windows open. He was still logged in to his Yahoo! account, his amazon.com account, his PAYPAL account, his Expedia account, and something else that I didn’t really note because I was still too stunned that this guy had basically given me carte blanche to spend all his money and ruin his credit rating and mess up his Amazon recommendations forever more!
Fortunately for him (I should get my head examined) I am honest. Fortunately for him (seriously, somebody smack me), I closed all of those windows with alacrity. Fortunately for him.
But on a serious note, I want all of you to know how welcome you are to come and visit Saratoga. We love you. Really. We want you to come. I want you to come. I’ll even let you sleep on my couch. Really. Please come. Don’t be mad. I didn’t mean it. Of course YOU aren’t dumb like them. You’re lovely. You’re wonderful. When you come to town, you will be greeted by the voices of a heavenly choir (and it will be heavenly, because the tenor section will be in the bar quaffing Guiness, most likely. It’s summer, after all, and the business of apologizing to tourists, playing directory assistance, giving directions and selling rubber racing ducks is thirsty work) singing you down the street. Come. Visit. The air is like perfume and we don’t have any smoke. Our river is full of water, which is full of fish which periodically stick their heads out of the water and ask us when YOU, yes YOU, are coming to catch them. They are practicing their graceful, spectacular leaps right into your cooler!
And in this part of the state, at the elevation of about 12,000 feet, they turn into mako sharks. Really.
This is... perhaps a little painful to write about since I’m pretty much supposed to be nice to tourists for a living, but sometimes one just has to shout out something rude and inappropriate from the rooftops...
...Unless one has a weblog!
Last week I came upon a local outfitter friend of mine, we’ll call him Johnboat (not his real name), sitting chuckling ruefully to himself over a bottle of canoe beer. He’d just gotten done telling Oscar the Grouchy Bartender (not his real name) a real whopper, one that he considered the best Stupid Tourist Quote ever.
“Kate,” he said to me, still sort of snorting and trying hard not to snarf his beer, “You’ll appreciate this.
“True story.
“I am SO not making this up.
“Really. This really happened.”
“OK, Johnboat, I’m ready. Tell me what really happened,” I said, or words to that effect.
“I took a group of people down the river today, and this one guy, this real know it all, who was driving his wife crazy showing her how to tie really bad knots and giving her horrible casting advice to cover up the fact that she was catching more fish than he was – you know the type I’m talking about...”
I nodded, watching Oscar still sputtering, too. This must be some story, I remember thinking.
“Well, as we were pulling out at Foote, he came over to me – and by the way, the bastard never did tip me – and said... he said...”
(Pause while Johnboat collected himself once again and Oscar, turning pink, had to leave the vicinity – he may have been making for the bathroom. This must be some punchline, I remember thinking)
“Hey John, hunter to hunter, you can tell me ‘cause I have a pretty good idea already: at what elevation in this part of the state do the mule deer turn into elk?”
Well, it took me a while to recover from this remark, which smacked me on the noggin and left me sort of stunned with my eyes whirling like those dealies in a slot machine, but then I had to burst his bubble.
I had a better one, you see.
A visitor had come into my office that same afternoon who was really eager to know what our utility bills are for heating the hot pool! No really! I could tell him! He was sure it would be very hard for me to justify such a staggering sum, to my constituents but I could trust him not to reveal it to any of them!
He left very angrily after repeated attempts on my part to explain to him that the changing rooms, like our downtown sidwalks, are geothermally heated. That wasn’t the point, you see. He wanted to know what it cost to heat the water in the pool.
Oscar and Johnboat agreed that this was even better.
Then Johnboat challenged me to a friendly game of billiards, which I of course lost handily (but with great aplomb) and the story just sort of peters out from there...
...Until today. When I finally drifted into my office at my usual shamefully late hour, there was a man at my desk, a man who looked sort of familiar. I’m not 100% on this, but I’m pretty sure it was my interrogator of the previous week! And he was using my computer!
(Note to out of town readers: Since no retail business downtown has yet cottoned on to the potential increase in foot traffic that would be afforded by providing public e-mail access in a store [HINT HINT HINT] [Hopeless, I know, but I’ve got to keep trying], the chamber office offers this service)
And he used it for a very long time.
And finally, he left, paying over his customary $5 (yes, people! E-mail has become such a preoccupation with travelers that most of them will PAY just for a chance to check it! HINT HINT HINT!) and winking as he bid us cheery-bye.
I sat down to get to work... and he had left FIVE browser windows open. He was still logged in to his Yahoo! account, his amazon.com account, his PAYPAL account, his Expedia account, and something else that I didn’t really note because I was still too stunned that this guy had basically given me carte blanche to spend all his money and ruin his credit rating and mess up his Amazon recommendations forever more!
Fortunately for him (I should get my head examined) I am honest. Fortunately for him (seriously, somebody smack me), I closed all of those windows with alacrity. Fortunately for him.
But on a serious note, I want all of you to know how welcome you are to come and visit Saratoga. We love you. Really. We want you to come. I want you to come. I’ll even let you sleep on my couch. Really. Please come. Don’t be mad. I didn’t mean it. Of course YOU aren’t dumb like them. You’re lovely. You’re wonderful. When you come to town, you will be greeted by the voices of a heavenly choir (and it will be heavenly, because the tenor section will be in the bar quaffing Guiness, most likely. It’s summer, after all, and the business of apologizing to tourists, playing directory assistance, giving directions and selling rubber racing ducks is thirsty work) singing you down the street. Come. Visit. The air is like perfume and we don’t have any smoke. Our river is full of water, which is full of fish which periodically stick their heads out of the water and ask us when YOU, yes YOU, are coming to catch them. They are practicing their graceful, spectacular leaps right into your cooler!
And in this part of the state, at the elevation of about 12,000 feet, they turn into mako sharks. Really.
Tuesday, June 25, 2002
OOH, FOUL TEMPTATION!
No, this is not another plug for a semi-pornographic blog, it’s a genuine cry for help, or at least advice, from my dear readers.
The website to which I directed your attention earlier today (IntroducingMonday.co.uk) has given me a truly wicked idea, one which I have the resources to reify if I so choose.
Many of you who know me personally are aware that tomorrow is my “hobo-versary,” the first anniversary of my disgruntled departure from a certain local media outlet. Many of you drank with me as part of my traveling hobo party; others urged me to start my own magazine or something to compete with this media outlet. At the time I had other plans (mostly breaking my own tequila consumption record)...
Today, though, gave me a fun, wicked, naughty puss of an idea.
As of today, June 24, 2002, no one has registered any of the following domains:
saratogasun.com
saratogasun.net
saratogasun.org
etc.
I could easily jump a certain someone’s unexploited claim on these and many other related domains and do a “la la la” or just use it to host this here blog or use it to keep track of this august media outlet's mistakes or... well, there’s just no end to the pettiness in which I could engage.
Of course, if I thought that certain someone was ever really going to follow through on his plans to take the thing online, I would just content myself with cybersquatting and wait for him to come to me and see how much I could wring out of him... but since I don’t think so, that wouldn’t profit me much or be much fun.
So, help me out, dear readers. Should I take the high road and tell the little devils sitting on both of my shoulders (the angel who belongs on the right side gave up in disgust back when I was still a teen) to feck off?
Or should I have some fun?
If you vote for the latter, what would you like to see in my La La La site?
Share your thoughts by clicking HERE and e-mailing me.
Please?
I need you.
No, this is not another plug for a semi-pornographic blog, it’s a genuine cry for help, or at least advice, from my dear readers.
The website to which I directed your attention earlier today (IntroducingMonday.co.uk) has given me a truly wicked idea, one which I have the resources to reify if I so choose.
Many of you who know me personally are aware that tomorrow is my “hobo-versary,” the first anniversary of my disgruntled departure from a certain local media outlet. Many of you drank with me as part of my traveling hobo party; others urged me to start my own magazine or something to compete with this media outlet. At the time I had other plans (mostly breaking my own tequila consumption record)...
Today, though, gave me a fun, wicked, naughty puss of an idea.
As of today, June 24, 2002, no one has registered any of the following domains:
saratogasun.com
saratogasun.net
saratogasun.org
etc.
I could easily jump a certain someone’s unexploited claim on these and many other related domains and do a “la la la” or just use it to host this here blog or use it to keep track of this august media outlet's mistakes or... well, there’s just no end to the pettiness in which I could engage.
Of course, if I thought that certain someone was ever really going to follow through on his plans to take the thing online, I would just content myself with cybersquatting and wait for him to come to me and see how much I could wring out of him... but since I don’t think so, that wouldn’t profit me much or be much fun.
So, help me out, dear readers. Should I take the high road and tell the little devils sitting on both of my shoulders (the angel who belongs on the right side gave up in disgust back when I was still a teen) to feck off?
Or should I have some fun?
If you vote for the latter, what would you like to see in my La La La site?
Share your thoughts by clicking HERE and e-mailing me.
Please?
I need you.
MEANWHILE, AT GAMES DESIGN HEADQUARTERS... LA LA LA...
...As my Able Assistant (not her real name) was discovering the pleasures of the Greatest Cybersquatter Ever, (whose signature ditty we sang out loud at the Hotel Wolf this afternoon. It’s a catchy tune, la la la), I invented a brand new game, and I’m very excited about it.
From the maniacs who brought you Big Game Paintball comes the hot new craze sure to be sweeping offices all over downtown Saratoga in a matter of hours,
DOGGIE SOCCER
All you need is a few dozen Golfy Goof balls (if none of these are at hand, ordinary hand balls or anything else that’s bouncy and vaguely round will do in a pinch) and two or more highly energetic dogs. Set up goals at either end of your store or office.
It’s you versus the dogs, with dogs acting as both midfielders and goalkeepers. Your aim is to get that ball into the goals – either goal – as many times as possible. Yes, you may use your hands, and you’re going to need them, because if the dogs get the ball away from you, they make straight for the couch (if you don’t have a couch in your store or office, you don’t belong in business in Saratoga) and start chewing on it, and there’s only one way to get the ball back: snatch it, drool still dripping from its chewy surface, right out of your favorite hound’s jaws.
Best when played with a border collie who has never, ever showed any remotely playful behavior before (seriously! this dog has been de-freakin’-prived!) and a very mixed breed yellow eyed cartoon dog, especially if the game goes on in full view of the two people in town who least approve of Saratoga’s Dogs of Business.
Perhaps I’ll organize a tournament soon.
...As my Able Assistant (not her real name) was discovering the pleasures of the Greatest Cybersquatter Ever, (whose signature ditty we sang out loud at the Hotel Wolf this afternoon. It’s a catchy tune, la la la), I invented a brand new game, and I’m very excited about it.
From the maniacs who brought you Big Game Paintball comes the hot new craze sure to be sweeping offices all over downtown Saratoga in a matter of hours,
DOGGIE SOCCER
All you need is a few dozen Golfy Goof balls (if none of these are at hand, ordinary hand balls or anything else that’s bouncy and vaguely round will do in a pinch) and two or more highly energetic dogs. Set up goals at either end of your store or office.
It’s you versus the dogs, with dogs acting as both midfielders and goalkeepers. Your aim is to get that ball into the goals – either goal – as many times as possible. Yes, you may use your hands, and you’re going to need them, because if the dogs get the ball away from you, they make straight for the couch (if you don’t have a couch in your store or office, you don’t belong in business in Saratoga) and start chewing on it, and there’s only one way to get the ball back: snatch it, drool still dripping from its chewy surface, right out of your favorite hound’s jaws.
Best when played with a border collie who has never, ever showed any remotely playful behavior before (seriously! this dog has been de-freakin’-prived!) and a very mixed breed yellow eyed cartoon dog, especially if the game goes on in full view of the two people in town who least approve of Saratoga’s Dogs of Business.
Perhaps I’ll organize a tournament soon.
Monday, June 24, 2002
ISN'T IT AWFUL?
"Dammit, Kate, you are my worst friend ever!"
- message on my voicemail left just minutes ago
Sometimes I think I owe pretty much everyone in my life one big fat apology for their even having met me, but then I remember that it wasn't really my fault that we each chose to be bored in the same bar, or signed up for the same course in the philosophy of language, or had tickets to the same concert, or got invited to the same wedding. Not my fault at all.
What we've done together since then, now that's probably my fault. I don't know what it is, but somehow I seem to be everybody's worst friend (though some are still naive enough to say "best" instead). I'm an excuse on two legs for being late for work, drinking too much Guiness, not completing a homework assignment, missing a date with that special someone, whatever.
And the thing is, the excuse seems to work!
I remember one famous period of time at Beaudacious Bard College - a year after I had graduated, when students of a certain computer science professor (who never did get the guts to go skinny dipping with me, though he'd promised to as my graduation present) actually got away with not doing their homework because I was there for a visit. He told them "I haven't gotten much done, either."... quite ruefully, as I recall...
But you should be glad you have me, oh you little worker ants. I admire your better traits while being baffled by them. I encourage your bad habits. I improve your tolerance for alcohol. I loosen your tie. I waste hours of your time talking about nothing. I baffle your children. I overwhelm you with web pages for a few days and then hit a dry spell, then overwhelm you some more.
And in the meantime, I don't answer my phone (the fans in this house are very loud and very necessary, and my phone is just a pitiful little jangle in the white noise), I pick up my mail maybe twice a month, and generally only make myself availalble when I feel like doing so, which is usually at a wildly inconvenient time for you, but you run off to play with me anyway.
Poor, poor darlings.
But no one is forcing you to say yes.
Hugs and kisses,
Your Worst Friend
"Dammit, Kate, you are my worst friend ever!"
- message on my voicemail left just minutes ago
Sometimes I think I owe pretty much everyone in my life one big fat apology for their even having met me, but then I remember that it wasn't really my fault that we each chose to be bored in the same bar, or signed up for the same course in the philosophy of language, or had tickets to the same concert, or got invited to the same wedding. Not my fault at all.
What we've done together since then, now that's probably my fault. I don't know what it is, but somehow I seem to be everybody's worst friend (though some are still naive enough to say "best" instead). I'm an excuse on two legs for being late for work, drinking too much Guiness, not completing a homework assignment, missing a date with that special someone, whatever.
And the thing is, the excuse seems to work!
I remember one famous period of time at Beaudacious Bard College - a year after I had graduated, when students of a certain computer science professor (who never did get the guts to go skinny dipping with me, though he'd promised to as my graduation present) actually got away with not doing their homework because I was there for a visit. He told them "I haven't gotten much done, either."... quite ruefully, as I recall...
But you should be glad you have me, oh you little worker ants. I admire your better traits while being baffled by them. I encourage your bad habits. I improve your tolerance for alcohol. I loosen your tie. I waste hours of your time talking about nothing. I baffle your children. I overwhelm you with web pages for a few days and then hit a dry spell, then overwhelm you some more.
And in the meantime, I don't answer my phone (the fans in this house are very loud and very necessary, and my phone is just a pitiful little jangle in the white noise), I pick up my mail maybe twice a month, and generally only make myself availalble when I feel like doing so, which is usually at a wildly inconvenient time for you, but you run off to play with me anyway.
Poor, poor darlings.
But no one is forcing you to say yes.
Hugs and kisses,
Your Worst Friend
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
