I was going to have a new blog template in place by now, but Blogger has made customization (real customization, not just shuffling elements) a lot harder than I expected. And also I spent the time I thought I was going to use for that on a completely different web-based project, which you'll get to see pretty soon.
[Postscript -- oops. It looks like my experimentation with my blog template was more permanent than I realized. This isn't what I want the finished product to look like, but it'll have to do for now.]
Also I thought I would have something witty and heartfelt formulated to say, here at the end of the year, but all I really have is a short list of things I wanted to remember to mention in my next blog post. A very short list. Two things, in fact, which make a lopsided sort of list.
1) My sister has a sweet etsy shop up. Check out all her cool designs and consider: do you know anyone who doesn't need a shirt with an old-school boombox on it?
2) On a more serious note: If any of my readers are wondering what the big deal is about this whole domestic partnership thing in Oregon, here is a link that explains what's at stake.
The delay in passing the law affects people I care about, and that makes me sad. Then I read news stories where people cite "Christian values" as their reason for objecting to domestic partnerships for homosexuals, and that makes me angry. For shame! Take a look at the list linked above, imagine the past and future stories each of those numbers certainly represents, and tell me: Since when was Christ in the persecution business?
I don't want my blog to get political. But this has become personal.
[deep breath]
So, yeah, that's what I wanted to cover. And here I am in Roswell, NM ringing in the new year with Meep, as has accidentally become tradition. She has a new old house that she's just moving into, and back in Portland I have a new old life that I'm moving into, and everything looks pretty achievable from here, messes to sort and stow, tasks to undertake and conquer. We are capable and eager, and life just now is full of the kind of chaos that precedes creation.
Happy New Year, all.
Monday, December 31, 2007
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
Of Presents and the Present.
I was going to post last night, but then I got an early Christmas present from Sean, and I was no good at all for 3 hours 41 minutes 29 seconds, by which time it was really really late.
(There was an all-too-brief period in my life where I didn't have to look for new music to get excited about, when friends would regularly force me to sit down and listen to this marvel that they just uncovered, or that had been growing on them for the past two weeks like mold on an unrefrigerated pizza. And if I was really lucky they would explain, in words and gestures that a musical dilettante could understand, how it blew their skulls open to let light in; how it coiled around their hearts with a python's grip; how it hung their dreams and nightmares out to dry.
For years after I moved away from these people who were excited! about music!, I read reviews in Spin and Rolling Stone, looking for that contagious spirit of discovery. But the subtext of every review was: "I know so much about so many bands that I am too jaded to feel passionately about any of them (or too cool to admit it)." Also, they were constructed primarily of run-on sentences.
So my discovery of saidthegramophone two years ago was cause for much rejoicing. There are three guys who write for the site, but one guy whose passion carries it. That guy is Sean. Sean writes about how a song makes him feel, and oh, how he feels. He writes about the pictures a song makes in his head, and ah, what pictures he sees. Sometimes it's music that I love right away, and sometimes it's music that I wouldn't have given a second glance if he didn't sit me down in a beanbag by the stereo and explicate it for me. Either way, I'm grateful.)
Sean's Christmas gift to me -- and you, too -- is a list of his favorite fifty songs of 2007. Fifty little wrapped boxes: here, I picked this out for you. There are wonders and terrors here, tidy griefs and messy celebrations, scraps and shards of other people's hearts, each downloadable for the next week or two. If you are in the least bit interested in knowing about good music that happened this year, start at the top and download as much as your patience, or your bandwidth, will allow. And then read what he wrote about them.
You won't be sorry.
Anyway, yes, I'm back. I took the train home, which I would highly recommend to anyone who is going through a transition which deserves lengthy reflection. I was warmly welcomed by friends and family at several stops along the way. The journey was good, and the homecoming was good, and life is good in general. I've been thinking about some things that have changed in me since I left my library job, and though I hate to jinx it by making any specific claims, I'm optimistic that I've actually... well, grown.
After the holidays, I will be in Portland for several months, and I'm happy about that. I don't know where I'll be working, but it will be on a decidedly temporary basis. My taste for adventure has been whetted, not sated. I already have Big Plans for next summer (which involve boats of a different sort), and enough other ideas to fill the next couple of years at least. I tried settling down for almost a decade; now I'm going to try not settling down for a while, and I think it may suit me a lot better.
One of my many projects this week is to get all my boat photos sorted. I am gradually posting a selection of the best ones on my photo sharing site of choice. For privacy reasons, there will be no link to that here, but I'll gladly share with any friends who ask for it.
(There was an all-too-brief period in my life where I didn't have to look for new music to get excited about, when friends would regularly force me to sit down and listen to this marvel that they just uncovered, or that had been growing on them for the past two weeks like mold on an unrefrigerated pizza. And if I was really lucky they would explain, in words and gestures that a musical dilettante could understand, how it blew their skulls open to let light in; how it coiled around their hearts with a python's grip; how it hung their dreams and nightmares out to dry.
For years after I moved away from these people who were excited! about music!, I read reviews in Spin and Rolling Stone, looking for that contagious spirit of discovery. But the subtext of every review was: "I know so much about so many bands that I am too jaded to feel passionately about any of them (or too cool to admit it)." Also, they were constructed primarily of run-on sentences.
So my discovery of saidthegramophone two years ago was cause for much rejoicing. There are three guys who write for the site, but one guy whose passion carries it. That guy is Sean. Sean writes about how a song makes him feel, and oh, how he feels. He writes about the pictures a song makes in his head, and ah, what pictures he sees. Sometimes it's music that I love right away, and sometimes it's music that I wouldn't have given a second glance if he didn't sit me down in a beanbag by the stereo and explicate it for me. Either way, I'm grateful.)
Sean's Christmas gift to me -- and you, too -- is a list of his favorite fifty songs of 2007. Fifty little wrapped boxes: here, I picked this out for you. There are wonders and terrors here, tidy griefs and messy celebrations, scraps and shards of other people's hearts, each downloadable for the next week or two. If you are in the least bit interested in knowing about good music that happened this year, start at the top and download as much as your patience, or your bandwidth, will allow. And then read what he wrote about them.
You won't be sorry.
Anyway, yes, I'm back. I took the train home, which I would highly recommend to anyone who is going through a transition which deserves lengthy reflection. I was warmly welcomed by friends and family at several stops along the way. The journey was good, and the homecoming was good, and life is good in general. I've been thinking about some things that have changed in me since I left my library job, and though I hate to jinx it by making any specific claims, I'm optimistic that I've actually... well, grown.
After the holidays, I will be in Portland for several months, and I'm happy about that. I don't know where I'll be working, but it will be on a decidedly temporary basis. My taste for adventure has been whetted, not sated. I already have Big Plans for next summer (which involve boats of a different sort), and enough other ideas to fill the next couple of years at least. I tried settling down for almost a decade; now I'm going to try not settling down for a while, and I think it may suit me a lot better.
* * *
One of my many projects this week is to get all my boat photos sorted. I am gradually posting a selection of the best ones on my photo sharing site of choice. For privacy reasons, there will be no link to that here, but I'll gladly share with any friends who ask for it.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Pau Hana.
My last day was good, too. As usual, nothing went quite as expected: while setting out for the afternoon's battle sail with the Lady Washington, we saw waves crashing over the top of the breakwater, nudged one another and said "That'll be interesting." Things did indeed become interesting, in a rollercoastery kind of way, as we rounded the breakwater: lots of green choppiness, and the boat plunging up and down madly, and things tumbling around below decks (yes, we stowed for sea, but there are degrees of stowing for sea, and we hadn't expected to need quite this much). The line between scary-fun and scary-not-fun is often a fine one for me at sea; we stayed out right to the near edge of that line before turning around and telling the passengers to come back tomorrow instead.
So then we actually had time to rig the lights (yes, rope lights in the rigging) before the evening's sail, which wasn't actually a sail so much as a motor through the marina for the lighted boat parade. This was much better than having to rig them underway. The lighted boat parade was cold and rainy, and the passengers lost enthusiasm after the first two hours, so we got to come back early from that too. But in the meantime I didn't feel the cold, because I was busy helping the new gunner clean the guns (and touching off a few as well (whee!)). The lighted boat parade was an exercise in jaw-dropping tackiness, with giant glowing snowmen and blaring music of the "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" variety, and it became apparent relatively quickly that our captain's strategy was to fire on the all most obnoxious vessels. I was fine with that, personally. And so, apparently, was my loyal friend Janellie, who braved traffic and weather to join me for my last outing on the Chieftain and to take me out to Pinkberry afterward.
And then a night, and a morning, and pau hana: work is finished, time to go home.
Every time I leave that damn boat, I leave another chunk of my heart behind. I was so careful when I packed up my things, not one object forgotten to be lamented over later. But my heart, it seeped into the bilge and twined around the yards and I couldn't untangle it, had to feel it tearing (ow ow oww) as I walked away with a smile on my face and the voices of the crew in my ears:
Safe and sound at home again,
Let the waters roar, Jack.
Long we've tossed on the rolling main,
Now we're safe ashore, Jack.
Don't forget your old shipmates,
Folly-rolly-rolly-rolly-rye-oh!
So then we actually had time to rig the lights (yes, rope lights in the rigging) before the evening's sail, which wasn't actually a sail so much as a motor through the marina for the lighted boat parade. This was much better than having to rig them underway. The lighted boat parade was cold and rainy, and the passengers lost enthusiasm after the first two hours, so we got to come back early from that too. But in the meantime I didn't feel the cold, because I was busy helping the new gunner clean the guns (and touching off a few as well (whee!)). The lighted boat parade was an exercise in jaw-dropping tackiness, with giant glowing snowmen and blaring music of the "Rockin' Around the Christmas Tree" variety, and it became apparent relatively quickly that our captain's strategy was to fire on the all most obnoxious vessels. I was fine with that, personally. And so, apparently, was my loyal friend Janellie, who braved traffic and weather to join me for my last outing on the Chieftain and to take me out to Pinkberry afterward.* * *
And then a night, and a morning, and pau hana: work is finished, time to go home.
* * *
Every time I leave that damn boat, I leave another chunk of my heart behind. I was so careful when I packed up my things, not one object forgotten to be lamented over later. But my heart, it seeped into the bilge and twined around the yards and I couldn't untangle it, had to feel it tearing (ow ow oww) as I walked away with a smile on my face and the voices of the crew in my ears:
Safe and sound at home again,
Let the waters roar, Jack.
Long we've tossed on the rolling main,
Now we're safe ashore, Jack.
Don't forget your old shipmates,
Folly-rolly-rolly-rolly-rye-oh!
Penultimate.
December 7, 2007
1130 hours
Santa Cruz was hard on us all. Oh, it's a nice port; the people were friendly, and the town was pretty cool. But the swell in the marina was terrible. We had extra mooring lines out, and extra chafe gear, and still the lines groaned and the dock screeched and clunked all night. And that was when the weather was nice.
When the storm kicked up offshore, we moved farther into the marina. The night of the 3rd was the roughest: the boat popped two and a half cleats and broke a mooring line (a flimsy excuse for a mooring line, but still) before we all ran up on deck in our pajamas and moved to a spot with stronger cleats. Two of the boat's heavy ironwood kevels splintered like balsa under the tension of the lines wrapped around them. We put out even more mooring lines and stood night watches thereafter. The water under the pier sucked and swirled, and the dock bowed upward under the heinously creaking lines, but the boat stayed put until the weather cleared enough for us to leave the harbor for good.
We got into Marina del Rey around 4 a.m. today. The weather window we caught was a good one; after getting some distance between us and Santa Cruz, the transit was surprisingly smooth, even around Point Conception. The last few hours were a little bumpy, but not terrible. I quit taking the dimenhydrenate around 11 p.m. last night and felt fine thereafter.
What I remember most about the transit to San Francisco is sunlight, blue skies and blue water. What I'll remember most about the transit to Marina del Rey is the stars. This evening, through Los Angeles' urban glow, they were only a pallid reminder of the profligate brilliance I saw over the Pacific two nights ago. Those are the stars that inspired the ancients to visions of heroes and monsters. The sky opened into an unobstructed view of outer space, and we floated in it, the tiniest of specks. And there were stars in the water too, flecks of phosphorescence glinting past in our pale wake.
So today I got to sleep in late, and then I got to hang off the side of the boat and prep the stern windows for a new coat of varnish, which was really fun for a while and then really not fun for a while (cold wind, and legs getting numb in the harness, and the masking tape not sticking). And then after dinner I went out for one last time with crew, and we listened to a fairly bad U2 cover band and swapped stories and stayed up way too late. Tomorrow is a busy day, with dockside tours in the morning and public sails in the afternoon and evening, and it will be cold and rainy, and no one will want to do anything but sleep at the end of it. But today was a really great next-to-last day.
1130 hours
Santa Cruz was hard on us all. Oh, it's a nice port; the people were friendly, and the town was pretty cool. But the swell in the marina was terrible. We had extra mooring lines out, and extra chafe gear, and still the lines groaned and the dock screeched and clunked all night. And that was when the weather was nice.
When the storm kicked up offshore, we moved farther into the marina. The night of the 3rd was the roughest: the boat popped two and a half cleats and broke a mooring line (a flimsy excuse for a mooring line, but still) before we all ran up on deck in our pajamas and moved to a spot with stronger cleats. Two of the boat's heavy ironwood kevels splintered like balsa under the tension of the lines wrapped around them. We put out even more mooring lines and stood night watches thereafter. The water under the pier sucked and swirled, and the dock bowed upward under the heinously creaking lines, but the boat stayed put until the weather cleared enough for us to leave the harbor for good.
We got into Marina del Rey around 4 a.m. today. The weather window we caught was a good one; after getting some distance between us and Santa Cruz, the transit was surprisingly smooth, even around Point Conception. The last few hours were a little bumpy, but not terrible. I quit taking the dimenhydrenate around 11 p.m. last night and felt fine thereafter.
What I remember most about the transit to San Francisco is sunlight, blue skies and blue water. What I'll remember most about the transit to Marina del Rey is the stars. This evening, through Los Angeles' urban glow, they were only a pallid reminder of the profligate brilliance I saw over the Pacific two nights ago. Those are the stars that inspired the ancients to visions of heroes and monsters. The sky opened into an unobstructed view of outer space, and we floated in it, the tiniest of specks. And there were stars in the water too, flecks of phosphorescence glinting past in our pale wake.
So today I got to sleep in late, and then I got to hang off the side of the boat and prep the stern windows for a new coat of varnish, which was really fun for a while and then really not fun for a while (cold wind, and legs getting numb in the harness, and the masking tape not sticking). And then after dinner I went out for one last time with crew, and we listened to a fairly bad U2 cover band and swapped stories and stayed up way too late. Tomorrow is a busy day, with dockside tours in the morning and public sails in the afternoon and evening, and it will be cold and rainy, and no one will want to do anything but sleep at the end of it. But today was a really great next-to-last day.
Monday, December 03, 2007
Good and Sick.
December 3, 2007
0900 hours
Less than a week to go now. It's my last day off, and I'm lying in bed trying to work out how to pack a box to mail home so that my remaining luggage won't be too much to carry. The trickiest part is that the box also has to be easy to carry: the post office is about a half an hour away on foot. Meanwhile, the Chieftain is underway, children on deck screaming "All hands aye!" in response to a new education coordinator. My departure is taking place around the same time as a couple of other long-term crew members, which to me indicates that I timed it just about right.
There are other indications too. As hard as it is to leave -- and believe me, it's hard -- it would be even harder to stay longer. I look at the incoming crew, full of enthusiasm and ideals, and think about how well they'll work together. I so wish I could be part of that. But I'm dried up, bleached out, burnt down to ash. My stated intention at the beginning of this tour was to stay until I was "good and sick of it," and I think it's fair to say I've reached that point. I'm always tired and often cranky. I have a cold (aka "boat plague"). I take things for granted that I shouldn't: the good-natured banter of my shipmates, the feel of a mooring line in my hands, the patterns the light makes on the water. And my fatigue shows: I'm no longer trying to be the best I can, just trying to get through the day.
So it's time to get off the boat. My successor's contract begins today; she's already very good at this job, even though it's a new one for her. I can see that everything is going to go just fine without me, and that makes me both happy and sad.
I have one last transit to make, from Santa Cruz to Marina del Rey. We were scheduled to depart this evening, but the weather may not allow us to leave until Wednesday. It's actually been clear and sunny wherever we are almost every day since we reached California. Offshore, though, big weather is brewing, and the route south will take us around the notoriously choppy Point Conception. So here we stay until the forecast clears. (Meanwhile, back in the vicinity of Tillamook, the waves are around 30', and Gray's Harbor appears to have some sort of hurricane situation. Yikes.)
Postscript: The box was 21 lbs 13 oz. It took me an hour to get to the post office. My future self (the one that will be traveling home by train next week) better be grateful. Having shipped off all the stuff I won't need before I leave, I immediately bought a bunch more: Value Village was having a storewide 50% off sale, and there was this cool Asian discount store... erm, let's just say that apparently I've been craving colorful clothing. In other news, the waters outside the harbor were so choppy that we had an average of 10 ralphing children per educational sail today, much to the secret glee of certain crew members. The ones who weren't queasy, I mean. Me, I was just happy to be on land for the afternoon.
0900 hours
Less than a week to go now. It's my last day off, and I'm lying in bed trying to work out how to pack a box to mail home so that my remaining luggage won't be too much to carry. The trickiest part is that the box also has to be easy to carry: the post office is about a half an hour away on foot. Meanwhile, the Chieftain is underway, children on deck screaming "All hands aye!" in response to a new education coordinator. My departure is taking place around the same time as a couple of other long-term crew members, which to me indicates that I timed it just about right.
There are other indications too. As hard as it is to leave -- and believe me, it's hard -- it would be even harder to stay longer. I look at the incoming crew, full of enthusiasm and ideals, and think about how well they'll work together. I so wish I could be part of that. But I'm dried up, bleached out, burnt down to ash. My stated intention at the beginning of this tour was to stay until I was "good and sick of it," and I think it's fair to say I've reached that point. I'm always tired and often cranky. I have a cold (aka "boat plague"). I take things for granted that I shouldn't: the good-natured banter of my shipmates, the feel of a mooring line in my hands, the patterns the light makes on the water. And my fatigue shows: I'm no longer trying to be the best I can, just trying to get through the day.
So it's time to get off the boat. My successor's contract begins today; she's already very good at this job, even though it's a new one for her. I can see that everything is going to go just fine without me, and that makes me both happy and sad.
I have one last transit to make, from Santa Cruz to Marina del Rey. We were scheduled to depart this evening, but the weather may not allow us to leave until Wednesday. It's actually been clear and sunny wherever we are almost every day since we reached California. Offshore, though, big weather is brewing, and the route south will take us around the notoriously choppy Point Conception. So here we stay until the forecast clears. (Meanwhile, back in the vicinity of Tillamook, the waves are around 30', and Gray's Harbor appears to have some sort of hurricane situation. Yikes.)
Postscript: The box was 21 lbs 13 oz. It took me an hour to get to the post office. My future self (the one that will be traveling home by train next week) better be grateful. Having shipped off all the stuff I won't need before I leave, I immediately bought a bunch more: Value Village was having a storewide 50% off sale, and there was this cool Asian discount store... erm, let's just say that apparently I've been craving colorful clothing. In other news, the waters outside the harbor were so choppy that we had an average of 10 ralphing children per educational sail today, much to the secret glee of certain crew members. The ones who weren't queasy, I mean. Me, I was just happy to be on land for the afternoon.
Monday, November 26, 2007
1/2 Moon.
November 25, 2007
2130 hours
It occurred to me with a shock today that it's one month from Christmas. One month from today, I will have returned home after various stops along the way, will have accomplished (or not) all the things I hope to do before the holiday, and will be sitting around my parents' house, oversaturated with gifts and food. Now that we have finally (hallelujah!) left Sacramento behind us, the final countdown of my tour begins.
We've been in Half Moon Bay with the Lady Washington for the past several days, doing public sails, mock cannon battles and dockside tours. It's been glorious to sail in the ocean again, even without much wind. There is room to maneuver here -- a broad plane of water to navigate instead of a twisting line -- and there are waves. Not huge ones, but enough of a swell that those of us aloft while going in and out of the harbor today got quite a ride. Alas, we cannot stay; we're headed for Santa Cruz tomorrow (0430 departure, ugh) and leaving the Lady behind. Santa Cruz has its own pleasures, no doubt, but it also means I'm that much closer to The End.
On the surface it doesn't seem to make much difference, this looming terminus for my life aquatic. Yes, I'm spending more time training my replacement. And I said goodbye to a dear crew member of the Lady Washington today who'll be departing before the boats cross paths again. But everything goes on much as it did before I began to consider that my days on this boat are numbered. There's just an underlying awareness that things will not always be as they are now. Soon, this or that issue that I feel really ought to be dealt with will be someone else's problem. Soon I will no longer brush my teeth while looking up at the stars through the rig. Soon I will sleep on a much softer mattress. Soon I will be parted from people who have invaded my personal space and my heart for these many months. Soon this volume will conclude: time for a different set of characters, different setting, different genre. And the transience of this segment of my life is a sharply pointed reminder (an etching in miniature) of the transience of human life, how quickly its beauties and pains pass, even while you're thinking it's lasting forever.
At least, those are the kinds of thoughts I had today while rubbing neat's-foot oil into the leather chafe gear in the rig, while the setting sun cast a coppery light across the harbor at Half Moon Bay.
2130 hours
It occurred to me with a shock today that it's one month from Christmas. One month from today, I will have returned home after various stops along the way, will have accomplished (or not) all the things I hope to do before the holiday, and will be sitting around my parents' house, oversaturated with gifts and food. Now that we have finally (hallelujah!) left Sacramento behind us, the final countdown of my tour begins.
We've been in Half Moon Bay with the Lady Washington for the past several days, doing public sails, mock cannon battles and dockside tours. It's been glorious to sail in the ocean again, even without much wind. There is room to maneuver here -- a broad plane of water to navigate instead of a twisting line -- and there are waves. Not huge ones, but enough of a swell that those of us aloft while going in and out of the harbor today got quite a ride. Alas, we cannot stay; we're headed for Santa Cruz tomorrow (0430 departure, ugh) and leaving the Lady behind. Santa Cruz has its own pleasures, no doubt, but it also means I'm that much closer to The End.
On the surface it doesn't seem to make much difference, this looming terminus for my life aquatic. Yes, I'm spending more time training my replacement. And I said goodbye to a dear crew member of the Lady Washington today who'll be departing before the boats cross paths again. But everything goes on much as it did before I began to consider that my days on this boat are numbered. There's just an underlying awareness that things will not always be as they are now. Soon, this or that issue that I feel really ought to be dealt with will be someone else's problem. Soon I will no longer brush my teeth while looking up at the stars through the rig. Soon I will sleep on a much softer mattress. Soon I will be parted from people who have invaded my personal space and my heart for these many months. Soon this volume will conclude: time for a different set of characters, different setting, different genre. And the transience of this segment of my life is a sharply pointed reminder (an etching in miniature) of the transience of human life, how quickly its beauties and pains pass, even while you're thinking it's lasting forever.
At least, those are the kinds of thoughts I had today while rubbing neat's-foot oil into the leather chafe gear in the rig, while the setting sun cast a coppery light across the harbor at Half Moon Bay.
Monday, November 12, 2007
All Hands Aye!
November 10, 2007
1000 hours
We left the Lady Washington behind in Rio Vista and went up the Sacramento River, where the waters are shallow and the bridges low. Now we're docked behind Joe's Crab Shack in Old Sac, which has a tendency to blare "Wild Wild West" and other songs of a similar quality late into the evening. I am amazed by Old Sacramento, with its boardwalks and souvenir shops: 160 years since the rush, and still pulling in the gold. It reminds me eerily of the Western Town area of my favorite amusement park, the Enchanted Forest. I keep expecting to glance in a window and see an animatronic barber pulling the last tooth out of an animatronic prospector's head, or an animatronic formerly-Chinese-but-now-politically-correct fellow doing laundry in a washtub. If only it had a fort with a big slide, or an underground maze that exits through a tipi, I would be so happy.
Anyway, I'm forging new frontiers in exhaustion here on the Hawaiian Chieftain. Here is our daily schedule: 0700 reveille, chores, breakfast, muster, prepare to meet the public. 0900 we load the boat up with schoolchildren (typically 5th graders) for an educational sail. Our education coordinator is among the most energetic people I've ever met. He gets the kids' attention by shouting "All hands!" at the top of his powerful lungs, to which they scream "All hands aye!" If they're not absolutely deafening, he makes them do it again, "about ten million times louder." And Nigel, they go to eleven.
An ed sail schedule goes something like this:
- Board passengers and leave the dock
- Break up into small groups and teach line handling basics (safety, commands, belaying and coiling)
- Students set the sails (under close supervision by crew, naturally)
- First rotation through stations taught by crew (Life of a Common Sailor, Officers and Navigation, History of Triangle Trade in the late 18th century)
- All students on deck for a moment of silence while they close their eyes and imagine what it was like to voyage in the Age of Sail (O, brief blessed peace!)
- Second rotation through teaching stations
- Students douse the sails
- Third rotation
- Kill any remaining time with shanties and silly songs
- Dock and disembark passengers
All of this, as you can imagine, makes for a very long three hours. Then if we're lucky we get about 20 minutes for lunch before the next group of kids comes down the dock and we do it all again. And then, when we've finished with the second group (around 1530), we get to furl the sails and re-belay and coil nearly all the lines, while simultaneously opening the boat to the public at 1600 for an hour of dockside tours. After dinner (1800, if not delayed because we're so short on crew that we need the cook to help with furling) someone usually puts in a movie, which I rarely get all the way through before stumbling off to my bunk, listening to 1/2 hour of soothing music and falling asleep. Getting ten or more hours of sleep, I have learned, really helps with days like this.
Of course the ed sails are pretty cool. By this time I can teach all three of the stations, each of which has its own nifty props and fun facts. Most of the kids are really into it, because this is pretty much the coolest field trip ever. And teaching other people to set the sails means you really can't fudge anymore on knowing the names of the lines or which ones are supposed to be going up or down, something I, er, may or may not have been guilty of in the past. It's just that it's an insane schedule, especially taking into account that we don't get weekends off. Even our lively education coordinator is looking haggard after only four straight days of this.
And that is why, even though my contract is up in less than a month, that still seems like a long, long time from now.
1000 hours
We left the Lady Washington behind in Rio Vista and went up the Sacramento River, where the waters are shallow and the bridges low. Now we're docked behind Joe's Crab Shack in Old Sac, which has a tendency to blare "Wild Wild West" and other songs of a similar quality late into the evening. I am amazed by Old Sacramento, with its boardwalks and souvenir shops: 160 years since the rush, and still pulling in the gold. It reminds me eerily of the Western Town area of my favorite amusement park, the Enchanted Forest. I keep expecting to glance in a window and see an animatronic barber pulling the last tooth out of an animatronic prospector's head, or an animatronic formerly-Chinese-but-now-politically-correct fellow doing laundry in a washtub. If only it had a fort with a big slide, or an underground maze that exits through a tipi, I would be so happy.
Anyway, I'm forging new frontiers in exhaustion here on the Hawaiian Chieftain. Here is our daily schedule: 0700 reveille, chores, breakfast, muster, prepare to meet the public. 0900 we load the boat up with schoolchildren (typically 5th graders) for an educational sail. Our education coordinator is among the most energetic people I've ever met. He gets the kids' attention by shouting "All hands!" at the top of his powerful lungs, to which they scream "All hands aye!" If they're not absolutely deafening, he makes them do it again, "about ten million times louder." And Nigel, they go to eleven.
An ed sail schedule goes something like this:
- Board passengers and leave the dock
- Break up into small groups and teach line handling basics (safety, commands, belaying and coiling)
- Students set the sails (under close supervision by crew, naturally)
- First rotation through stations taught by crew (Life of a Common Sailor, Officers and Navigation, History of Triangle Trade in the late 18th century)
- All students on deck for a moment of silence while they close their eyes and imagine what it was like to voyage in the Age of Sail (O, brief blessed peace!)
- Second rotation through teaching stations
- Students douse the sails
- Third rotation
- Kill any remaining time with shanties and silly songs
- Dock and disembark passengers
All of this, as you can imagine, makes for a very long three hours. Then if we're lucky we get about 20 minutes for lunch before the next group of kids comes down the dock and we do it all again. And then, when we've finished with the second group (around 1530), we get to furl the sails and re-belay and coil nearly all the lines, while simultaneously opening the boat to the public at 1600 for an hour of dockside tours. After dinner (1800, if not delayed because we're so short on crew that we need the cook to help with furling) someone usually puts in a movie, which I rarely get all the way through before stumbling off to my bunk, listening to 1/2 hour of soothing music and falling asleep. Getting ten or more hours of sleep, I have learned, really helps with days like this.
Of course the ed sails are pretty cool. By this time I can teach all three of the stations, each of which has its own nifty props and fun facts. Most of the kids are really into it, because this is pretty much the coolest field trip ever. And teaching other people to set the sails means you really can't fudge anymore on knowing the names of the lines or which ones are supposed to be going up or down, something I, er, may or may not have been guilty of in the past. It's just that it's an insane schedule, especially taking into account that we don't get weekends off. Even our lively education coordinator is looking haggard after only four straight days of this.
And that is why, even though my contract is up in less than a month, that still seems like a long, long time from now.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
Fran Sancisco!
October 25, 2007
1025 hours
We made it to SF in less than three days. It took almost a week to get a decent weather window, but what we got made up for the wait: blue skies and calm seas all the way south, with an approaching storm front Wednesday giving us enough of a push in the right direction that we cut the engines and just sailed at 6-7 knots for a good four hours. Whales spouted in the distance. Dolphins played under our bow. Orion clambered up from the horizon every night. We motored under the Golden Gate Bridge around 10:30 p.m, the city sparkling all around us. Sunrise found us anchored off Sausalito; we rested there a while, gazing at the whimsical architecture and the sailboats gliding past (on which people were, naturally, staring back at us), then made for our moorage at Pier 40. We are all exhausted and excited and as carefree as we are likely to be for some time.
I did some experimenting with drugs on this trip -- namely dimenhydrenate, which I took at the bare minimum recommended dosage to help with seasickness. It left me very groggy at first, and mildly stoned the entire time, but I would have put up with a lot more than that to avoid the chronic dry heaves I experienced between Westport and Tillamook. I don't know whether I actually needed drugs for such a calm transit, but I know I had the pre-transit jitters pretty badly, and the stuff calmed me down minutes after it hit my system. So on the whole I think I chose wisely, and now that I know how it affects me, I won't be afraid to use it again as necessary. Of course (of course!) I would prefer to be the kind of sailor who doesn't need medication, ever, but I'm not too proud to take it if I do.
Tonight the female members of the crew made an excursion to Haight-Ashbury, which turned out to be kinda like the Hawthorne district of Portland, only more so. Fine chocolate and various articles of clothing were purchased and exulted over (best! transit hat! ever!), and scrumptious Indian food was eaten. In the window of a bookstore I saw a sign advertising Nanowrimo and felt a little wistful; this will be the first November in three years that I haven't participated. If your life is less busy than mine, I urge you to sign up and write yourself a novel. When else are you going to get around to it?
Now the younger members of the crew are having a hookah/dance party on deck, and I am settling in for the night. I am not looking forward to the 0700 reveille tomorrow, but we have a Grand Arrival (formal entrance into the city with the Lady Washington and lots of press) scheduled for 1000 hours. That will be cool, but it marks the beginning of a schedule that will be fairly relentless until my departure from the boat in December. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to be getting back to sailing on a regular basis. I'm just reluctant to move on from this brief blissful rest.
Postscript: For reasons unknown to me, the Grand Arrival was canceled. There doesn't seem to have been much preliminary PR done for us at this port -- no one seems to know we're even here -- so things have actually continued to be relatively chill. The afternoon's battle sail was canceled because no one bought tickets. That was okay, because this evening we took out a singles group charter. They arrived dressed up in pirate costumes and bearing large quantities of alcohol. They weren't a bad crowd, but I was still unusually eager to go aloft. By the way, the Bay is magnificent from the course yard at night.
1025 hours
We made it to SF in less than three days. It took almost a week to get a decent weather window, but what we got made up for the wait: blue skies and calm seas all the way south, with an approaching storm front Wednesday giving us enough of a push in the right direction that we cut the engines and just sailed at 6-7 knots for a good four hours. Whales spouted in the distance. Dolphins played under our bow. Orion clambered up from the horizon every night. We motored under the Golden Gate Bridge around 10:30 p.m, the city sparkling all around us. Sunrise found us anchored off Sausalito; we rested there a while, gazing at the whimsical architecture and the sailboats gliding past (on which people were, naturally, staring back at us), then made for our moorage at Pier 40. We are all exhausted and excited and as carefree as we are likely to be for some time.
I did some experimenting with drugs on this trip -- namely dimenhydrenate, which I took at the bare minimum recommended dosage to help with seasickness. It left me very groggy at first, and mildly stoned the entire time, but I would have put up with a lot more than that to avoid the chronic dry heaves I experienced between Westport and Tillamook. I don't know whether I actually needed drugs for such a calm transit, but I know I had the pre-transit jitters pretty badly, and the stuff calmed me down minutes after it hit my system. So on the whole I think I chose wisely, and now that I know how it affects me, I won't be afraid to use it again as necessary. Of course (of course!) I would prefer to be the kind of sailor who doesn't need medication, ever, but I'm not too proud to take it if I do.
Tonight the female members of the crew made an excursion to Haight-Ashbury, which turned out to be kinda like the Hawthorne district of Portland, only more so. Fine chocolate and various articles of clothing were purchased and exulted over (best! transit hat! ever!), and scrumptious Indian food was eaten. In the window of a bookstore I saw a sign advertising Nanowrimo and felt a little wistful; this will be the first November in three years that I haven't participated. If your life is less busy than mine, I urge you to sign up and write yourself a novel. When else are you going to get around to it?
Now the younger members of the crew are having a hookah/dance party on deck, and I am settling in for the night. I am not looking forward to the 0700 reveille tomorrow, but we have a Grand Arrival (formal entrance into the city with the Lady Washington and lots of press) scheduled for 1000 hours. That will be cool, but it marks the beginning of a schedule that will be fairly relentless until my departure from the boat in December. Don't get me wrong, I'm glad to be getting back to sailing on a regular basis. I'm just reluctant to move on from this brief blissful rest.
Postscript: For reasons unknown to me, the Grand Arrival was canceled. There doesn't seem to have been much preliminary PR done for us at this port -- no one seems to know we're even here -- so things have actually continued to be relatively chill. The afternoon's battle sail was canceled because no one bought tickets. That was okay, because this evening we took out a singles group charter. They arrived dressed up in pirate costumes and bearing large quantities of alcohol. They weren't a bad crowd, but I was still unusually eager to go aloft. By the way, the Bay is magnificent from the course yard at night.
Friday, October 19, 2007
Here Comes the Coast Guard!
We've been in the news lately. Did you see us? If not, that's probably for the best, as accounts thus far have all been more inaccurate than not. Here's a prime example. It contains an average of one inaccuracy per sentence. For example: "foundering" means "taking on water and sinking," neither of which was even a little bit true.
Here's what really happened:
Early the morning of the 16th, the weather off the Oregon coast went from really unpleasant to downright nasty. Swells were up to 20 feet, and winds were gusting up to 50 knots. Though both engines were fully operational, the Hawaiian Chieftain is a relatively lightweight vessel with a draft of only five feet, and she was unable to make headway against the wind. With no sea anchor aboard, our captain was occupied with trying to keep the vessel from broaching (i.e. veering broadside to the swells). The forecast coming over the radio called for still worse weather in the next few hours.
There was really only one logical thing to do at this point: call on the Coast Guard. They came out to assess the situation, and by the time they arrived, the weather had calmed temporarily (thus the report of merely 14 foot seas and 35 knot winds). They agreed to give us a tow into the nearest harbor, which happened to be Tillamook, and there we are even now lying low until the forecast looks a little friendlier.
It's simple enough in retrospect, but while it was all going on it was much more confusing. I was awakened by our steward at 8 a.m. (midway between watches): "Put on your foulies and harness and stand by for all hands on deck." Weak with nausea and exhaustion, I struggled into my foul-weather gear and harness, then numbly donned the lifejacket handed to me, trying really really hard not to wonder what was going on.
On deck, the world was cold wet chaos. I planted myself on a quarterdeck bench next to a couple of similarly dazed shipmates and tried to wrap my mind around what was going on. The captain was whipping the wheel back and forth. Several of the crew were struggling to rig the giant yellow tarp as a makeshift sea anchor. The steward was getting everyone into big orange vests. Eventually the salt spray and adrenaline brought back my wits, and I was able to make some bumbling attempts at usefulness.
The waves gradually began to settle a bit, and the next big swell I was bracing myself for finally just didn't come. The Coast Guard radioed that they had a visual, and eventually we spotted them too, zipping through the waves in their rough-and-ready vessel. As they drew alongside to send heaving lines, a ray of sunlight burst out improbably through the heavy cloud cover and radiated a brilliant rainbow against the gray sky.
And so we were towed into Tillamook Bay. The waters in the harbor were calm and the sky was blue, which made it seem as though everything we had just been through was merely a ridiculous nightmare. Residents of the town raced down to the dock to see what strange vessel the Coasties had brought in. (One of the Guardsmen had radioed ahead: "Tell my wife to come down to the dock with the camera.") And I called up my aunt and uncle who live in Tillamook, and they invited the entire crew over to their place for pizza and showers and much-needed rest.
So we're not in Fran Sancisco. We're not even in Newport, which is where we hoped to be before the storm hit. But we're safe, and very grateful to be so. And as soon as the weather clears, we'll be headed south again.
I've posted this MP3 before, but this is the song that popped into my head the first moment I sighted the Coast Guard vessel:
Tennis - Here Comes the Coast Guard!
Here's what really happened:
Early the morning of the 16th, the weather off the Oregon coast went from really unpleasant to downright nasty. Swells were up to 20 feet, and winds were gusting up to 50 knots. Though both engines were fully operational, the Hawaiian Chieftain is a relatively lightweight vessel with a draft of only five feet, and she was unable to make headway against the wind. With no sea anchor aboard, our captain was occupied with trying to keep the vessel from broaching (i.e. veering broadside to the swells). The forecast coming over the radio called for still worse weather in the next few hours.
There was really only one logical thing to do at this point: call on the Coast Guard. They came out to assess the situation, and by the time they arrived, the weather had calmed temporarily (thus the report of merely 14 foot seas and 35 knot winds). They agreed to give us a tow into the nearest harbor, which happened to be Tillamook, and there we are even now lying low until the forecast looks a little friendlier.
It's simple enough in retrospect, but while it was all going on it was much more confusing. I was awakened by our steward at 8 a.m. (midway between watches): "Put on your foulies and harness and stand by for all hands on deck." Weak with nausea and exhaustion, I struggled into my foul-weather gear and harness, then numbly donned the lifejacket handed to me, trying really really hard not to wonder what was going on.
On deck, the world was cold wet chaos. I planted myself on a quarterdeck bench next to a couple of similarly dazed shipmates and tried to wrap my mind around what was going on. The captain was whipping the wheel back and forth. Several of the crew were struggling to rig the giant yellow tarp as a makeshift sea anchor. The steward was getting everyone into big orange vests. Eventually the salt spray and adrenaline brought back my wits, and I was able to make some bumbling attempts at usefulness.
The waves gradually began to settle a bit, and the next big swell I was bracing myself for finally just didn't come. The Coast Guard radioed that they had a visual, and eventually we spotted them too, zipping through the waves in their rough-and-ready vessel. As they drew alongside to send heaving lines, a ray of sunlight burst out improbably through the heavy cloud cover and radiated a brilliant rainbow against the gray sky.
And so we were towed into Tillamook Bay. The waters in the harbor were calm and the sky was blue, which made it seem as though everything we had just been through was merely a ridiculous nightmare. Residents of the town raced down to the dock to see what strange vessel the Coasties had brought in. (One of the Guardsmen had radioed ahead: "Tell my wife to come down to the dock with the camera.") And I called up my aunt and uncle who live in Tillamook, and they invited the entire crew over to their place for pizza and showers and much-needed rest.
So we're not in Fran Sancisco. We're not even in Newport, which is where we hoped to be before the storm hit. But we're safe, and very grateful to be so. And as soon as the weather clears, we'll be headed south again.
I've posted this MP3 before, but this is the song that popped into my head the first moment I sighted the Coast Guard vessel:
Tennis - Here Comes the Coast Guard!
Monday, October 15, 2007
Escape from Aberdeen
Monday, October 15, 2007
1400 hours
"Then the whale went all the way to San Francisco," said the storyteller to the row of preschoolers in the aft cabin.
One little girl raised her hand. "One time I went to Fran Sancisco," she began, and the other children chimed in, "My gramma lives in Fran Sancisco!" "My dad went to Fran Sancisco!"
The storyteller hushed them, but it was too late. For those of us who were in the aft cabin during that storytime in Seattle, the city in question was ever after to be known as Fran Sancisco.
Today we played the song (you know the one) and we put flowers in our hair (Queen Anne's lace and red clover were all we could find in Aberdeen). We hugged each other and cheered. We are finally going to Fran Sancisco.
But the weather forecast is ominous. Twenty-foot following seas are predicted for Wednesday and Thursday, with some hefty headwinds to add to the chaos. Odds are good that we'll be ducking into Newport, Oregon to sit out this gale.
At least we'll be out of Aberdeen. Both boats have passed Coast Guard inspections and survived rainy days, frayed tempers, and plans gone awry. And there have been a couple of bright spots that made this interlude bearable. One was visits from a few good friends. Another was our proximity to the seaport office. It's been great to finally meet the people I've been working with via phone and e-mail for the last couple of months, and to sit down and hash out some of the details of the paperwork I do. Everything makes more sense, and I've helped contribute to the process as well.
Also, we repainted the anchor hawsepipes in the fo'c's'le and refinished the sole (floor) in the aft cabin, heads, and library. (Ah, you thought I was getting away from libraries, didn't you? The "library" on the Chieftain is a passageway with a wide seat and a single bookshelf.) While filling our boat with toxic fumes wasn't immediately a happy thing, it did result in us getting a room at a nearby hotel -- along with access to a pool and a hot tub. And that hot tub just made everything so much better.
So now we're sitting in Westport refueling. We'll shortly be on our way, racing the weather south. The captain is plotting out waypoints on the GPS with the watch leaders, and I'm sneaking a blog post on the ship's computer. (Turns out the whole charged-by-the-minute thing was a myth.) The suspense is palpable.
1400 hours
"Then the whale went all the way to San Francisco," said the storyteller to the row of preschoolers in the aft cabin.
One little girl raised her hand. "One time I went to Fran Sancisco," she began, and the other children chimed in, "My gramma lives in Fran Sancisco!" "My dad went to Fran Sancisco!"
The storyteller hushed them, but it was too late. For those of us who were in the aft cabin during that storytime in Seattle, the city in question was ever after to be known as Fran Sancisco.
Today we played the song (you know the one) and we put flowers in our hair (Queen Anne's lace and red clover were all we could find in Aberdeen). We hugged each other and cheered. We are finally going to Fran Sancisco.
But the weather forecast is ominous. Twenty-foot following seas are predicted for Wednesday and Thursday, with some hefty headwinds to add to the chaos. Odds are good that we'll be ducking into Newport, Oregon to sit out this gale.
At least we'll be out of Aberdeen. Both boats have passed Coast Guard inspections and survived rainy days, frayed tempers, and plans gone awry. And there have been a couple of bright spots that made this interlude bearable. One was visits from a few good friends. Another was our proximity to the seaport office. It's been great to finally meet the people I've been working with via phone and e-mail for the last couple of months, and to sit down and hash out some of the details of the paperwork I do. Everything makes more sense, and I've helped contribute to the process as well.
Also, we repainted the anchor hawsepipes in the fo'c's'le and refinished the sole (floor) in the aft cabin, heads, and library. (Ah, you thought I was getting away from libraries, didn't you? The "library" on the Chieftain is a passageway with a wide seat and a single bookshelf.) While filling our boat with toxic fumes wasn't immediately a happy thing, it did result in us getting a room at a nearby hotel -- along with access to a pool and a hot tub. And that hot tub just made everything so much better.
So now we're sitting in Westport refueling. We'll shortly be on our way, racing the weather south. The captain is plotting out waypoints on the GPS with the watch leaders, and I'm sneaking a blog post on the ship's computer. (Turns out the whole charged-by-the-minute thing was a myth.) The suspense is palpable.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Maintaining.
Friday, September 28, 2007
2000 hours
We did splash that Friday. Unfortunately, a couple of leaks became immediately obvious, so we got hauled right back out of the water again. It's good to find problems like that before you sail away, we agreed -- but it still felt like defeat. Most of the crew got up at 2:00 that morning to install the propeller shafts, or had been woken up in the process, and we had all worked extra hard to get everything seaworthy again in time to leave that day. I was hunkered at the end of the haulout dock on Hermes the boat-bike, taking photos of the Chieftain's re-introduction to the water and grinning like a madman, when I saw several of the crew get back off the boat, their faces and posture telegraphing the bad news.
It really was just a temporary setback, though; we were put back on the blocks, but remained in the lift so we could easily return to the water the next morning. And then we set to fixing the leaks, which (with the help of a welder from the next boat over) proved to be completely doable before nightfall.
The second splash was successful, but the subsequent transit was hard on us all. We were fatigued to begin with, and the immediate transition from a boat that doesn't move to a boat that moves a lot was rough. This was also my first ocean transit, as we left the Sound and headed for Grays Harbor, and I spent most of it feeling cold and queasy and, well, miserable. I felt sick before we even got back in the water, though, so I have hope that ocean transits without pre-existing tummy upsets may be easier. Or if not, that I'll learn to suck it up and make myself useful. In the meantime, my current blog subtitle will just have to be poetic license.
We reached Westport in under 24 hours, and spent the next couple of days recovering. Our new captain, who got on just before the transit, brought a cold that promptly spread to 4/5 of our exhausted crew. Still, Westport was kind to us. I'd forgotten how much fun it is to sail in Grays Harbor: good wind and (unlike Puget Sound) just enough swell to remind you that you're really on a boat. Besides, Westport has the Knotty Pine, my favorite dive anywhere. Every booth in the joint is layered thick with memories for me, and I took care to add a few more this time around.
Now we've begun a 3-week period of vessel maintenance in Aberdeen, or as sailors from the region call it, Aberdoom: Where Dreams Go to Die. It is ironic that the home port for these boats is the most unpleasant and ill-appointed I've ever stayed in. We're moored behind the Walmart, at the mouth of the muddy, smelly Wishkah River, on a tiny crumbling cement dock. There's no fuel dock, no pumpout, no marine supply store, no shore restroom facilities except the port-a-potty and the Walmart. Several other major chain retailers are conveniently close by, but what I've seen of the rest of the town is run-down and seedy and thoroughly depressing. It seems oddly appropriate that Aberdeen's most famous resident is known for sad songs and suicide.
But there are compensations. We are finally reunited with the Lady Washington and her crew; the two boats are rafted together, so we can conveniently attend each others' parties, steal each others' snacks, and perform daring raids with Nerf dart guns. And maintenance is both more fun and more relaxed than haulout. I spent today scraping, sanding, and refinishing the gorgeous teak rails around the perimeter of the boat, and I expect to spend the next several days on it as well. I find it very soothing.
And in other happy news, I have a new little brother: after a wait of many months, my family has been approved to adopt an eight year old boy. I can't wait to meet him!
2000 hours
We did splash that Friday. Unfortunately, a couple of leaks became immediately obvious, so we got hauled right back out of the water again. It's good to find problems like that before you sail away, we agreed -- but it still felt like defeat. Most of the crew got up at 2:00 that morning to install the propeller shafts, or had been woken up in the process, and we had all worked extra hard to get everything seaworthy again in time to leave that day. I was hunkered at the end of the haulout dock on Hermes the boat-bike, taking photos of the Chieftain's re-introduction to the water and grinning like a madman, when I saw several of the crew get back off the boat, their faces and posture telegraphing the bad news.
It really was just a temporary setback, though; we were put back on the blocks, but remained in the lift so we could easily return to the water the next morning. And then we set to fixing the leaks, which (with the help of a welder from the next boat over) proved to be completely doable before nightfall.
The second splash was successful, but the subsequent transit was hard on us all. We were fatigued to begin with, and the immediate transition from a boat that doesn't move to a boat that moves a lot was rough. This was also my first ocean transit, as we left the Sound and headed for Grays Harbor, and I spent most of it feeling cold and queasy and, well, miserable. I felt sick before we even got back in the water, though, so I have hope that ocean transits without pre-existing tummy upsets may be easier. Or if not, that I'll learn to suck it up and make myself useful. In the meantime, my current blog subtitle will just have to be poetic license.
We reached Westport in under 24 hours, and spent the next couple of days recovering. Our new captain, who got on just before the transit, brought a cold that promptly spread to 4/5 of our exhausted crew. Still, Westport was kind to us. I'd forgotten how much fun it is to sail in Grays Harbor: good wind and (unlike Puget Sound) just enough swell to remind you that you're really on a boat. Besides, Westport has the Knotty Pine, my favorite dive anywhere. Every booth in the joint is layered thick with memories for me, and I took care to add a few more this time around.
Now we've begun a 3-week period of vessel maintenance in Aberdeen, or as sailors from the region call it, Aberdoom: Where Dreams Go to Die. It is ironic that the home port for these boats is the most unpleasant and ill-appointed I've ever stayed in. We're moored behind the Walmart, at the mouth of the muddy, smelly Wishkah River, on a tiny crumbling cement dock. There's no fuel dock, no pumpout, no marine supply store, no shore restroom facilities except the port-a-potty and the Walmart. Several other major chain retailers are conveniently close by, but what I've seen of the rest of the town is run-down and seedy and thoroughly depressing. It seems oddly appropriate that Aberdeen's most famous resident is known for sad songs and suicide.
But there are compensations. We are finally reunited with the Lady Washington and her crew; the two boats are rafted together, so we can conveniently attend each others' parties, steal each others' snacks, and perform daring raids with Nerf dart guns. And maintenance is both more fun and more relaxed than haulout. I spent today scraping, sanding, and refinishing the gorgeous teak rails around the perimeter of the boat, and I expect to spend the next several days on it as well. I find it very soothing.
And in other happy news, I have a new little brother: after a wait of many months, my family has been approved to adopt an eight year old boy. I can't wait to meet him!
Thursday, September 20, 2007
On the Hard.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
1750 hours
We are hauled out. This means we are sitting on blocks in the yard, literally.
Seeing the boat come out of the water was a thrill, yards all cockbilled, hoisted up on a massive lift and rolling, suspended, over dry gravel. And living on a land-boat was an exciting novelty at first. The public doesn't complain because we're not open for tours. Daily boat-cleaning chores are cast aside. We climb a 20' ladder to get on and off the boat. It's like living in a big crazy treehouse, only without the tree.
But we have been hauled out since the 10th, and we are all getting land-sick. We have all of the inconveniences of the Chieftain with few of the conveniences. That big ladder? Every time we want to wash dishes, or clothes, or our hands, or use the head, we have to climb down it and walk a long way across a gravel parking lot to the facilities. Dirt and mud from that parking lot gets tracked all through our usually tidy boat. And though it's refreshing to have a break from dealing with the public, we've been working a lot of long days trying to stay on our haulout schedule.
We've been successful in staying on our haulout schedule, actually. We were given a very short timeframe to do a lot of work, and we met it. The bottom has been cleaned and painted with a substance that is hostile to the growth of marine life (read: extremely toxic). Hull paint has been touched up along the waterline. All the throughholes in the hull have been opened, checked and cleaned, and the propellers, shafts, and bearings have been pulled and prepped. The Coast Guard has inspected us twice, and seems to think we're more or less all right. The problem has been with the stuff we can't do ourselves, the propeller parts that have to be professionally machined in a properly equipped facility. This continues to hold us up, so that our departure date hovers out in the future, always moving away as we approach it, like the end of the rainbow.
For me, it's really only mildly annoying. It could be a lot worse: Port Townsend really isn't a bad town to be stuck in, as seaside towns go (despite the dearth of wireless internet within a mile of the shipyard), and our workload has lightened considerably since we finished painting. But other crew members were expecting to be in Westport by now, counting on it in fact, and they're starting to trickle away by ones and twos, off to schools and jobs and family, disappointed and vexed at having to find transportation by land instead of by sea.
Summer is losing its grip, skidding away from us into the mist. Rainclouds and flocks of geese pass overhead as we commiserate about how much we miss being rocked to sleep at night. This evening I rode the tiny one-speed boat bike (Hermes, messenger of the gods) a mile and a half up the path beyond the paper mill, pedaling hard, inhaling the scent of rain-washed autumn herbs. On the long lazy slope homeward, I gazed out at the little boats coming in from the sound. None of them were as cool as my boat, but they were out on the water, and I envied them that. I want to be on the move. I want to chase after the geese, clutch at summer's outstretched hand and slide on southward into brightness and warmth.
Postscript: The propeller shafts are back and getting a sleek coat of fiberglass at this very moment. We should "splash" sometime Friday. In other news, I just found out about the free wireless at the Safeway across the street from the yard(!).
1750 hours
We are hauled out. This means we are sitting on blocks in the yard, literally.
Seeing the boat come out of the water was a thrill, yards all cockbilled, hoisted up on a massive lift and rolling, suspended, over dry gravel. And living on a land-boat was an exciting novelty at first. The public doesn't complain because we're not open for tours. Daily boat-cleaning chores are cast aside. We climb a 20' ladder to get on and off the boat. It's like living in a big crazy treehouse, only without the tree.
But we have been hauled out since the 10th, and we are all getting land-sick. We have all of the inconveniences of the Chieftain with few of the conveniences. That big ladder? Every time we want to wash dishes, or clothes, or our hands, or use the head, we have to climb down it and walk a long way across a gravel parking lot to the facilities. Dirt and mud from that parking lot gets tracked all through our usually tidy boat. And though it's refreshing to have a break from dealing with the public, we've been working a lot of long days trying to stay on our haulout schedule.
We've been successful in staying on our haulout schedule, actually. We were given a very short timeframe to do a lot of work, and we met it. The bottom has been cleaned and painted with a substance that is hostile to the growth of marine life (read: extremely toxic). Hull paint has been touched up along the waterline. All the throughholes in the hull have been opened, checked and cleaned, and the propellers, shafts, and bearings have been pulled and prepped. The Coast Guard has inspected us twice, and seems to think we're more or less all right. The problem has been with the stuff we can't do ourselves, the propeller parts that have to be professionally machined in a properly equipped facility. This continues to hold us up, so that our departure date hovers out in the future, always moving away as we approach it, like the end of the rainbow.
For me, it's really only mildly annoying. It could be a lot worse: Port Townsend really isn't a bad town to be stuck in, as seaside towns go (despite the dearth of wireless internet within a mile of the shipyard), and our workload has lightened considerably since we finished painting. But other crew members were expecting to be in Westport by now, counting on it in fact, and they're starting to trickle away by ones and twos, off to schools and jobs and family, disappointed and vexed at having to find transportation by land instead of by sea.
Summer is losing its grip, skidding away from us into the mist. Rainclouds and flocks of geese pass overhead as we commiserate about how much we miss being rocked to sleep at night. This evening I rode the tiny one-speed boat bike (Hermes, messenger of the gods) a mile and a half up the path beyond the paper mill, pedaling hard, inhaling the scent of rain-washed autumn herbs. On the long lazy slope homeward, I gazed out at the little boats coming in from the sound. None of them were as cool as my boat, but they were out on the water, and I envied them that. I want to be on the move. I want to chase after the geese, clutch at summer's outstretched hand and slide on southward into brightness and warmth.
Postscript: The propeller shafts are back and getting a sleek coat of fiberglass at this very moment. We should "splash" sometime Friday. In other news, I just found out about the free wireless at the Safeway across the street from the yard(!).
Monday, August 27, 2007
On Internet Access, and Other Joys of Boat Life.
Monday, August 27, 2007
2130 hours
Most of the time, my only access to the internet these days is through the ship's computer, which has one of those Verizon cards which works just about anywhere but only gives you a certain number of minutes per month (after which there's a per-minute charge, what is this, 1988?). This obviously limits my access quite a bit. Occasionally some generous land-dwelling soul will allow me to use a home or office computer. This is really really nice. However, it's generally just enough time to catch up on some correspondence, not enough to read anybody's blog. So I have no idea what most of you other bloggers are up to.
However, due to some fancy equipment brought by a generous volunteer, the Lady Washington is currently a wireless hotspot. Here in Tacoma, we are moored next to the Lady. This means that if you take your laptop out on the deck of the Hawaiian Chieftain while the wireless thingy is active, you can actually get a fairly decent connection. (Below decks, not so much; the Chieftain has a steel hull.) This has been really really really nice. Unfortunately, said volunteer will be taking his technology home with him at the end of the month. Also unfortunately, it's cold outside, so I'm writing this in my bunk and will run up on deck to post it when I'm done.
I've been lucky enough to have several friends come out to sail with me on the boats recently. Some even drove long distances to do so. It's fun to show people (meaning, people I know) what it is that I'm doing out here. I mean, not all the hours that I spend punching numbers into the computer and growling, but the other things. Things I don't think twice about anymore, but which would have amazed me a year and a half ago: things like belaying and coiling a line, or knowing which line to go to when the mate calls out commands, and what will happen if I haul on it or let it go. Or going aloft. I do still think twice about going aloft, but my second thought these days is usually "I am so cool right now."
A friend of mine back home, after finding out that I have to wear a costume for this job, said, "Oh, now I get the appeal." This struck me as odd, particularly the implied assumption that the clothes are the best part. For the record, I'm not actually all that jazzed about the 18th-century clothing. It gets in the way of sailing. I'm not an actor, and I'm not a re-enactor. I'm a sailor.
My job as purser is how I pay for the sailing. As purser, I'm in charge of accounting for all the money that is spent and received by the boat. This is a little ironic because I've managed to avoid math classes since midway through high school. In retrospect, that wasn't such a good idea. If I were half as comfortable with numbers as I am with letters (I can alphabetize in my sleep, and probably have), or if I'd ever taken a single accounting class in my life, I'd have been a lot less intimidated by all this paperwork. As it is, it's taken me quite some time to get used to it. One thing I learned the hard way was that I can really only deal effectively with spreadsheets when I'm not tired, hungry, dehydrated, or aching. This means not after sailing. With that and a few other lessons under my belt, I hesitantly claim that I'm actually getting kinda good at this now -- not as good as I'd like to be, but good enough that my hair is no longer in danger of being torn out every time I try to assemble an income report for the seaport office.
So there's sailing, and there's pursing, and there's various chores inbetween, and there's living in a steel box with a cast of genuinely interesting characters, and a dozen new things to learn every day, and taken as a whole this job is challenging and satisfying on every level: physical, mental, emotional, relational, and yes, spiritual too.
With all of that going for me, if my internet cravings are not satiated, well, I guess I can deal.
2130 hours
Most of the time, my only access to the internet these days is through the ship's computer, which has one of those Verizon cards which works just about anywhere but only gives you a certain number of minutes per month (after which there's a per-minute charge, what is this, 1988?). This obviously limits my access quite a bit. Occasionally some generous land-dwelling soul will allow me to use a home or office computer. This is really really nice. However, it's generally just enough time to catch up on some correspondence, not enough to read anybody's blog. So I have no idea what most of you other bloggers are up to.
However, due to some fancy equipment brought by a generous volunteer, the Lady Washington is currently a wireless hotspot. Here in Tacoma, we are moored next to the Lady. This means that if you take your laptop out on the deck of the Hawaiian Chieftain while the wireless thingy is active, you can actually get a fairly decent connection. (Below decks, not so much; the Chieftain has a steel hull.) This has been really really really nice. Unfortunately, said volunteer will be taking his technology home with him at the end of the month. Also unfortunately, it's cold outside, so I'm writing this in my bunk and will run up on deck to post it when I'm done.
I've been lucky enough to have several friends come out to sail with me on the boats recently. Some even drove long distances to do so. It's fun to show people (meaning, people I know) what it is that I'm doing out here. I mean, not all the hours that I spend punching numbers into the computer and growling, but the other things. Things I don't think twice about anymore, but which would have amazed me a year and a half ago: things like belaying and coiling a line, or knowing which line to go to when the mate calls out commands, and what will happen if I haul on it or let it go. Or going aloft. I do still think twice about going aloft, but my second thought these days is usually "I am so cool right now."
A friend of mine back home, after finding out that I have to wear a costume for this job, said, "Oh, now I get the appeal." This struck me as odd, particularly the implied assumption that the clothes are the best part. For the record, I'm not actually all that jazzed about the 18th-century clothing. It gets in the way of sailing. I'm not an actor, and I'm not a re-enactor. I'm a sailor.
My job as purser is how I pay for the sailing. As purser, I'm in charge of accounting for all the money that is spent and received by the boat. This is a little ironic because I've managed to avoid math classes since midway through high school. In retrospect, that wasn't such a good idea. If I were half as comfortable with numbers as I am with letters (I can alphabetize in my sleep, and probably have), or if I'd ever taken a single accounting class in my life, I'd have been a lot less intimidated by all this paperwork. As it is, it's taken me quite some time to get used to it. One thing I learned the hard way was that I can really only deal effectively with spreadsheets when I'm not tired, hungry, dehydrated, or aching. This means not after sailing. With that and a few other lessons under my belt, I hesitantly claim that I'm actually getting kinda good at this now -- not as good as I'd like to be, but good enough that my hair is no longer in danger of being torn out every time I try to assemble an income report for the seaport office.
So there's sailing, and there's pursing, and there's various chores inbetween, and there's living in a steel box with a cast of genuinely interesting characters, and a dozen new things to learn every day, and taken as a whole this job is challenging and satisfying on every level: physical, mental, emotional, relational, and yes, spiritual too.
With all of that going for me, if my internet cravings are not satiated, well, I guess I can deal.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
How I Got Back On The Boat, etc.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
1100 hours
So I went home for my brother's wedding, and what a glorious shindig that was. The tricky part turned out to be getting back to the boat, which was in Coupeville the day after the wedding. The crowded Greyhound (sold out for the weekend, as Amtrak wasn't running) got me as far as Everett, but then what? Coupeville is at the north end of Whidbey Island. Everett is south of Whidbey Island. The closest ferry to the island leaves from Mukilteo, the next town over from Everett. There are buses between all the towns and ferries in the area -- but most of the buses don't run on Sundays. And of course it was a Sunday.
So... I walked four miles, with a pack that weighed 23 or so lbs. (darn that laptop), to the Mukilteo ferry. And then I called the Chieftain from the ferry, and they said they'd send somebody for me when they got back from the evening sail. Some very generous and hospitable Coupevillains drove the length of Whidbey (about 40 miles, if I recall correctly) to pick me up and, it being very late by the time we got back, took me in for the night. Which meant that I got a much-needed shower that I wouldn't have got otherwise, and slept on a much better mattress.
It was totally worth it, of course. But next time I try to travel by public transportation in northwest Washington, it will not be on a Sunday.
From Coupeville to Everett, to Seattle (Lake Union), to Brownsville, which is north of Bremerton, and which is where I am now, on my day off, watching the Chieftain from the window of the port office. And in between, by little and by little, I am getting better both at sailing and at pursing. I am less exhausted and more even-tempered. There are several people aboard who are newer and know less than I. When people ask how long I've been aboard, I have to guess because I've lost track. And I am not tired of it yet.
1100 hours
So I went home for my brother's wedding, and what a glorious shindig that was. The tricky part turned out to be getting back to the boat, which was in Coupeville the day after the wedding. The crowded Greyhound (sold out for the weekend, as Amtrak wasn't running) got me as far as Everett, but then what? Coupeville is at the north end of Whidbey Island. Everett is south of Whidbey Island. The closest ferry to the island leaves from Mukilteo, the next town over from Everett. There are buses between all the towns and ferries in the area -- but most of the buses don't run on Sundays. And of course it was a Sunday.
So... I walked four miles, with a pack that weighed 23 or so lbs. (darn that laptop), to the Mukilteo ferry. And then I called the Chieftain from the ferry, and they said they'd send somebody for me when they got back from the evening sail. Some very generous and hospitable Coupevillains drove the length of Whidbey (about 40 miles, if I recall correctly) to pick me up and, it being very late by the time we got back, took me in for the night. Which meant that I got a much-needed shower that I wouldn't have got otherwise, and slept on a much better mattress.
It was totally worth it, of course. But next time I try to travel by public transportation in northwest Washington, it will not be on a Sunday.
From Coupeville to Everett, to Seattle (Lake Union), to Brownsville, which is north of Bremerton, and which is where I am now, on my day off, watching the Chieftain from the window of the port office. And in between, by little and by little, I am getting better both at sailing and at pursing. I am less exhausted and more even-tempered. There are several people aboard who are newer and know less than I. When people ask how long I've been aboard, I have to guess because I've lost track. And I am not tired of it yet.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
On The Flip Side.
Saturday, July 21, 2007
2110 hours
I spent the second (and last) night of the camp at Cypress Island, on Pelican Beach. It went fine, actually. The rain kept the mosquitoes down, and we stayed dry under a pre-existing shelter. There were very nice mulching toilets, with an interesting diagram on the inner wall so you could see what would happen to your poo. And Annoying Passenger stayed on the boat. In addition, there were s'mores, and singing. It was great. The next morning we had pancakes and cheesy scrambled eggs, cooked over a campfire by the Lady's crew, and then a few of us walked to Eagle Harbor. We were trying to get to Smuggler's Cove, but... you know, Eagle Harbor was pretty cool too. And it was a good walk. Very, very quiet. It was incredibly pleasant to have a break from human voices for a while.
Since then, we've been in Anacortes doing dockside tours and battle sails. And I'm feeling a lot better -- still tired, but no longer on the verge of coming down with the boat plague (colds get passed around and around the crew). At the moment, I'm sitting in the Chieftain's aft cabin, where most of the male members of the crew are playing that pirate card game (the one with the little boats you assemble) and drinking whisky and talking loudly, and several of the female members are watching "But I'm a Cheerleader" and eating peanut butter M&Ms and laughing loudly. It's the polar opposite of anchor watch. I really like how these two posts balance each other out, how I get to have both of these extremes in my life.
In other news, I organized my bunk and, in doing so, found the missing aloe vera. And there was much rejoicing.
Edit: I fixed the map so you can zoom in if you click on it.
2110 hours
I spent the second (and last) night of the camp at Cypress Island, on Pelican Beach. It went fine, actually. The rain kept the mosquitoes down, and we stayed dry under a pre-existing shelter. There were very nice mulching toilets, with an interesting diagram on the inner wall so you could see what would happen to your poo. And Annoying Passenger stayed on the boat. In addition, there were s'mores, and singing. It was great. The next morning we had pancakes and cheesy scrambled eggs, cooked over a campfire by the Lady's crew, and then a few of us walked to Eagle Harbor. We were trying to get to Smuggler's Cove, but... you know, Eagle Harbor was pretty cool too. And it was a good walk. Very, very quiet. It was incredibly pleasant to have a break from human voices for a while.
Since then, we've been in Anacortes doing dockside tours and battle sails. And I'm feeling a lot better -- still tired, but no longer on the verge of coming down with the boat plague (colds get passed around and around the crew). At the moment, I'm sitting in the Chieftain's aft cabin, where most of the male members of the crew are playing that pirate card game (the one with the little boats you assemble) and drinking whisky and talking loudly, and several of the female members are watching "But I'm a Cheerleader" and eating peanut butter M&Ms and laughing loudly. It's the polar opposite of anchor watch. I really like how these two posts balance each other out, how I get to have both of these extremes in my life.In other news, I organized my bunk and, in doing so, found the missing aloe vera. And there was much rejoicing.
Edit: I fixed the map so you can zoom in if you click on it.
Thursday, July 19, 2007
Anchor Watch.
Wednesday, July 8, 20070010 hours
I'm on anchor watch off Sucia Island, in the San Juans. This is my first time on any sort of watch. It's a beautiful night for it, calm and still, with a generous amount of stars overhead. Earlier we could see the shore group's campfire and the bouncing flames of a firedancer. We're far enough offshore that the mosquitoes can't find us. My watch companion is congenial and a patient teacher, both of shanty lyrics and boat check procedure.
Still, I'd really like to be asleep right now.
I've been so busy telling everybody how much fun sailing is that I forgot how hard it is. I'm really exhausted, just a few days in. I know it will get better, and I know there are times it will be much worse. But right now, just for the record: I'm tired. And this is hard. It's still totally fun and awesome and worthwhile, but, yeah, really really challenging.
Some fun things we did today: a laid-back sail/motor transit from Port Townsend, pretending we were the first palefaces to ever set eyes on the San Juans, rowing the jollyboat in to the island, rowing the jollyboat back out and in again when it turned out we'd forgotten several items, eating food cooked over a campfire, hiking in the woods, climbing around in the shallow little China Caves.
Even though I have some apprehensions about the night I'll spend on shore tomorrow (nobody brought mosquito repellent; don't know what kind of toilet facilities will be available, if any; one of the campers is really incredibly annoying; etc.), I'm genuinely sorry to be missing the next camping session. But my brother's getting married the day after that five-day session, and the real problem with being in the middle of nowhere without a car is that it makes it very hard to get anywhere else. So this means I'll need to skip out before the next camp, resulting in more days off than intended for me. Admittedly, I'm not entirely sorry about this. I can take home stuff I didn't need (can't wear my own climbing harness, rats) and bring back stuff I do (where, oh where is my aloe vera gel?).
And sleep.
A lot.
Thursday, July 12, 2007
Packing; Heat.
I did find one benefit to 101-degree weather: clothes dry on the line quicker than in the dryer.
Makes it hard to think in terms of packing for cool weather, though. I want to throw in a bunch of tank tops now, but when I'm out on the water, I'll want long-sleeved shirts almost exclusively.
That great big duffel bag I bought at Andy & Bax last week? Not nearly so big when I'm trying to stuff a blanket, pillow, thick wool sweater, pea coat, two pairs of boots, and a small mountain of warm clothes into it. Of course, it'll seem plenty big when I'm trying to lug it around.
Anyway, the end is in sight, but I'm taking a break from the packing to post my latest mix CD. This one speaks to the transition I'm in right now, with the quitting and the leaving and the traveling and the changing, and all the emotions that go with that.
1. The Be Good Tanyas - Ship Out On The Sea
2. Björk - Wanderlust
3. Rocky Votolato - Goldfield
4. The Blind Boys of Alabama - Demons
5. Yes - America
6. Rosie Thomas - Wedding Day
7. Martin Sexton - Glory Bound
8. The Deadly Deaths - See The World
9. Indigo Girls - Reunion
10. Nina Simone - Feeling Good
11. The American Analog Set - Fuck This... I'm Leaving
12. The Owls - Air
13. The Finches - The Road
14. Regina Spektor - Fidelity
15. Bishop Allen - Flight 180
16. Jason Webley - With
17. The Staple Singers - This May Be The Last Time
18. Polyphonic Spree - Move Away And Shine
If you want to reproduce the artifact exactly, here is the cover image, and here is the image I used for the CD label. Songs will be available for one week, and are posted with the intent to promote, not rip off, the artists. If you hear something you really like, do consider coughing up the cash for an album. Even if you buy it used.
Now to finish packing, and maybe sleep a little. Tomorrow I will take the train into Washington. The train does not go to Port Angeles, so (thanks to my friend Truck) I'll be arriving at the harbor on the back of a shiny black Valkyrie. Vroom.
Makes it hard to think in terms of packing for cool weather, though. I want to throw in a bunch of tank tops now, but when I'm out on the water, I'll want long-sleeved shirts almost exclusively.
That great big duffel bag I bought at Andy & Bax last week? Not nearly so big when I'm trying to stuff a blanket, pillow, thick wool sweater, pea coat, two pairs of boots, and a small mountain of warm clothes into it. Of course, it'll seem plenty big when I'm trying to lug it around.
Anyway, the end is in sight, but I'm taking a break from the packing to post my latest mix CD. This one speaks to the transition I'm in right now, with the quitting and the leaving and the traveling and the changing, and all the emotions that go with that.
1. The Be Good Tanyas - Ship Out On The Sea
2. Björk - Wanderlust
3. Rocky Votolato - Goldfield
4. The Blind Boys of Alabama - Demons
5. Yes - America
6. Rosie Thomas - Wedding Day
7. Martin Sexton - Glory Bound
8. The Deadly Deaths - See The World
9. Indigo Girls - Reunion
10. Nina Simone - Feeling Good
11. The American Analog Set - Fuck This... I'm Leaving
12. The Owls - Air
13. The Finches - The Road
14. Regina Spektor - Fidelity
15. Bishop Allen - Flight 180
16. Jason Webley - With
17. The Staple Singers - This May Be The Last Time
18. Polyphonic Spree - Move Away And Shine
If you want to reproduce the artifact exactly, here is the cover image, and here is the image I used for the CD label. Songs will be available for one week, and are posted with the intent to promote, not rip off, the artists. If you hear something you really like, do consider coughing up the cash for an album. Even if you buy it used.
Now to finish packing, and maybe sleep a little. Tomorrow I will take the train into Washington. The train does not go to Port Angeles, so (thanks to my friend Truck) I'll be arriving at the harbor on the back of a shiny black Valkyrie. Vroom.
Monday, July 09, 2007
Gunpowder, Treason, and Formic.
Nature is conspiring against my efforts to use my remaining time at home effectively:
- The ants found a new entry point into my kitchen, necessitating a lengthy session of sleuthing, caulking, and cleaning.
- A raccoon stole my Tevas off the back porch and hid them in the yard. I found them eventually, but they now bear the marks of needle-sharp teeth. (This makes them, I admit, just that much cooler.)
- And the forecast for Wednesday predicts a high of at least 100. Who can get anything done in such weather? Besides Badwater people, I mean.
I am vexed.
However, a number of other things have gone very well. Grandma's 90th birthday celebration, for one. Delightful. And my transportation plans to the boat are shaping up nicely. And then there was this, which would make anybody's night.
(Well. Maybe not everybody's. Definitely mine, though.)
- The ants found a new entry point into my kitchen, necessitating a lengthy session of sleuthing, caulking, and cleaning.
- A raccoon stole my Tevas off the back porch and hid them in the yard. I found them eventually, but they now bear the marks of needle-sharp teeth. (This makes them, I admit, just that much cooler.)
- And the forecast for Wednesday predicts a high of at least 100. Who can get anything done in such weather? Besides Badwater people, I mean.
I am vexed.
However, a number of other things have gone very well. Grandma's 90th birthday celebration, for one. Delightful. And my transportation plans to the boat are shaping up nicely. And then there was this, which would make anybody's night.
(Well. Maybe not everybody's. Definitely mine, though.)
Monday, July 02, 2007
Chance of Departure: One Hundred Percent.
The Quit Your Library Job Party, for those of you who couldn't make it, was a huge success. There was a lot of fresh fruit and a lot of talking, and a respectable amount of baby-holding and game-playing and dog-petting. A total of three library-job-quitters were present (and zero mimes). Rain showers occurred, but failed to dampen the fun. For those of you who did make it, thank you. I'm so glad you were there.
I would have written about that sooner, but I've been on the road for the past week-plus. Last Saturday, two of my favorite people married each other in Nixa, Missouri, and I used that as an excuse to visit friends in Nashville, Milwaukee, and Chicago as well. So it's been a steady round of quality time with quality folks, interspersed with thrilling episodes on planes, buses, and rental vehicles. I'm in Chicago right now, actually, in a small, quiet apartment, using a keyboard with a very loud spacebar. Pretty soon Mitchey will get off work and we'll go contradancing. And tomorrow I'll go home.
There has been some confusion about when I depart Portland for the boat. Some of the confusion has been my own. The current plan is to jump the pier July 12th. That's really soon, huh?
I would have written about that sooner, but I've been on the road for the past week-plus. Last Saturday, two of my favorite people married each other in Nixa, Missouri, and I used that as an excuse to visit friends in Nashville, Milwaukee, and Chicago as well. So it's been a steady round of quality time with quality folks, interspersed with thrilling episodes on planes, buses, and rental vehicles. I'm in Chicago right now, actually, in a small, quiet apartment, using a keyboard with a very loud spacebar. Pretty soon Mitchey will get off work and we'll go contradancing. And tomorrow I'll go home.
There has been some confusion about when I depart Portland for the boat. Some of the confusion has been my own. The current plan is to jump the pier July 12th. That's really soon, huh?
Wednesday, June 13, 2007
What Have You Done To Your...
Sorry. That other blog template was starting to feel claustrophobic. This one's equally ridiculous, but in a completely different way! Less literary kitsch and more... seaside kitsch, if you will.
The LibraryThing widgets are gone for now, too. The "Books I Don't Want" list would be extremely impractical to keep up from afar, and the "Currently Reading" one was becoming less "what I'm reading" and more "what's lying around unfinished." Meanwhile, the books I was actually reading went so quickly that they didn't even make it into the widget.
Also, I confess I have long been weary of that little conceit where I begin all post titles with "In Which." So out with that too, while we're at it. Let me tell you, I have gained a lot of respect for authors who manage to make all of their chapter subheadings witty.
I suppose now Blogger will republish the whole darn thing, which is inconvenient for a certain portion of my feed-reading audience. Mea culpa, friends. It'll all blow over soon.
The LibraryThing widgets are gone for now, too. The "Books I Don't Want" list would be extremely impractical to keep up from afar, and the "Currently Reading" one was becoming less "what I'm reading" and more "what's lying around unfinished." Meanwhile, the books I was actually reading went so quickly that they didn't even make it into the widget.
Also, I confess I have long been weary of that little conceit where I begin all post titles with "In Which." So out with that too, while we're at it. Let me tell you, I have gained a lot of respect for authors who manage to make all of their chapter subheadings witty.
I suppose now Blogger will republish the whole darn thing, which is inconvenient for a certain portion of my feed-reading audience. Mea culpa, friends. It'll all blow over soon.
Tuesday, June 12, 2007
In Which There's Gonna Be A Shindig.
So here's the dirt on the aforementioned Library Job Quitting Party:
Whose party? Library Job Quitters hhw and myself.
Who's invited? You, if you read this.
When? This Saturday, 1:00 to 5:00-ish (come and go as you like).
Where? Laurelhurst Park, Picnic Area D, near 39th & Ankeny (street parking; see map below).
If for some reason we are not at Area D, there will be hastily scribbled signs hung on trees, directing you to where we actually are.
Laurelhurst Park has a playground and public restrooms. Though it also has an off-leash area, this party will not take place during off-leash hours.
Feel free to bring one or more of the following:
- Picnic blankets
- Refreshing beverages
- Tasty snacks
- Ice, if you're into that
- A jacket (it may be cool in the shade)
- Frisbee, hackeysack, or other object to toss around
- Musical instruments
- Other people (of any age)
- Dogs or other gregarious pets
Please do not bring:
- Paper cups/plates. We've pretty well got that covered.
- Alcohol. You have to pay for a permit if you want to drink alcohol in the park, so we didn't apply for one. Hello, we're unemployed.
- Mimes. Self-explanatory.
X marks the spot.
Whose party? Library Job Quitters hhw and myself.
Who's invited? You, if you read this.
When? This Saturday, 1:00 to 5:00-ish (come and go as you like).
Where? Laurelhurst Park, Picnic Area D, near 39th & Ankeny (street parking; see map below).
If for some reason we are not at Area D, there will be hastily scribbled signs hung on trees, directing you to where we actually are.
Laurelhurst Park has a playground and public restrooms. Though it also has an off-leash area, this party will not take place during off-leash hours.
Feel free to bring one or more of the following:
- Picnic blankets
- Refreshing beverages
- Tasty snacks
- Ice, if you're into that
- A jacket (it may be cool in the shade)
- Frisbee, hackeysack, or other object to toss around
- Musical instruments
- Other people (of any age)
- Dogs or other gregarious pets
Please do not bring:
- Paper cups/plates. We've pretty well got that covered.
- Alcohol. You have to pay for a permit if you want to drink alcohol in the park, so we didn't apply for one. Hello, we're unemployed.
- Mimes. Self-explanatory.
X marks the spot.Monday, June 11, 2007
Which Comprises a Weekend and Five Questions.
I'm finished with my job. I'm really finished.
When I reach for my keys now, sometimes the way they feel startles me, with two less on the ring. Then I remember: oh yeah. I won't be needing those anymore.
That's what it feels like. Not like the buoyant rush of summer vacation. Just, every once in a while I notice a weight missing, and it dawns on me again: oh yeah.
And every time, it feels a little better.
The weather was absolutely wretched on Saturday, but I had fun anyway, shivering on the deck talking to the brave souls who wandered down the waterfront in the rain. (Some of them I even knew!) In the evening we sailed around the river getting whomped by the Lady in a mock cannon battle. Good fun, as my grandpa (also a sailor) used to say. Good fun.
Sunday I went to church, but today was my own Sabbath. Today I turned off the phone and spent half the day in bed. Today I have done nothing I didn't feel like doing. After several weeks of going almost nonstop, it's been really, really nice.
And today I finally had time to answer the five questions Sanguinity asked me. This is one of those self-propagating deals where if you ask nicely in the comments, I'll give you your own personalized set of five questions to answer in your blog, and then you have to make a similar offer to your readers, etc. Anyway, here we go:
1. Where would you most like to be a fly on the wall?
I have always wanted to spy on my ancestors, first and foremost those who chose to immigrate to America. (This is the first thing I'd do if I could time-travel.) They're all several generations back, so I never met them, but I'm curious about these people who got on a small boat and crossed the Atlantic to start over in a land they'd never seen before. What kind of people do this? It doesn't seem to have been poverty that motivated them, in most cases; why, then? What were they hoping to find -- or leave behind? And did they succeed?
And yes, specifically my ancestors, because every time I get to know another of my relatives, it feels like I'm filling in pieces of an immense jigsaw puzzle for which there is no box top. Parts of the picture become clear, and I go: oh, that's not a sandwich after all, it's a whale! Or whatever.
2. Books and ships: what was the first nautical book that caught your imagination; what is the book that has most inflamed it since?
I'm thinking the first one was probably Swallows and Amazons. I read and enjoyed several piratey books before then -- Captain Kidd's Cat, The Ghost in the Noonday Sun -- but that wasn't so much for the seafaring stuff as it was for the characters. Swallows and Amazons explained some basic sailing terms and concepts and made them immediate and relevant to the story, without coming across as didactic or overwhelming me with data. And it had fun characters too.
(Incidentally, one of my favorite parts of real-life sailing is also the characters. Privacy considerations prevent my blog from reflecting this as much as I would like; there is no alias I could assign that would conceal the identity of these people from anyone else who had sailed with them.)
Swallows and Amazons is about four English siblings who spend their summer holiday sailing a small boat in a lake. Their adventures inspired me to declare myself a pirate captain, a backyard cherry tree my ship, and my three siblings officers of a crew that was no less ferocious for being fictional. We recruited from Neverland, Florin, and ships of balladry. We preyed only on other pirates, yet swore allegiance to no land -- which of course meant we were exponentially more fearsome than pirates.
I've loved other nautical books since -- The Dark Frigate, The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle -- but the piece of writing that had the biggest impact on me was an article in my hometown newspaper, published in the early '90s, which interviewed several members of the crew of the Lady Washington. That's the one that made me say: I'm going to do that someday.
But that's not a book, is it? And neither is the movie, "Master and Commander," which is just incredibly cool from start to finish, and which I managed to watch at just the right time. I thoroughly enjoyed that book as well, but it didn't awe and delight me in the same way the same way the movie did. It is, however, probably the best nautical fiction I've read in the last 10 years, so if you didn't like my non-book answers to question #2b, Sang, that's it.
3. What's your favorite knot, bend, or hitch?
The bowline. If knots are a kind of magic (as believed by many primitives), this is a potent spell indeed.
I learned to tie the bowline several times, from a cousin, from a book, and from my dad, but the lesson that finally stuck was given on the dock in Westport by a blue-eyed sailor ten years my junior. He walked me through the steps over and over, told me a popular mnemonic narrative, and showed me a wrist-flip he used to tie it more quickly. There's a catch to learning knots from sailors, though; they always want to show off all the other knots they know. This guy was no exception. "Now," he said, "do you want to learn how to tie a dragon bowline?" I protested that I was still getting the hang of this one, but he said, "No, watch." Whipping a bowline into a large piece of line, he dropped the knotted end on the dock and walked a few paces, "dragon" it along behind him. I har-harred appreciatively, as did another sailor lad who had stopped to watch. "Okay, how about a Bangkok bowline?" my tutor asked us mischievously, swinging the heavy line. The other sailor backed abruptly away.
4. Of all the historic ships and voyages, what ship would you most like to see rebuilt (or wish had been preserved) and which voyage would you most like to go on? Would you rather go on the original voyage, or a re-enactment of the voyage?
I haven't actually read much about historical sea voyages, more's the pity. It would obviously be an exploratory voyage, not a boat full of Pilgrims or the like, but beyond that I'm not sure. The Beagle would certainly be a fun one. Johnny Keats and I are fairly enchanted with Balboa's discovery of another ocean on the far side of Central America, although he persists in crediting it to Cortez (look it up, John). Anyway, I really don't know. This question bears further investigation.
As a woman, I'd rather go on a re-enactment of any historical sea voyage than the real thing. If I could (temporarily!) change my gender, however, I'd go with the original.
5. If, as your sail date approaches, you had an option to crew with the space-merchants instead, would you?
My first thought was "In a heartbeat!" But I'm not really that impulsive; I'd have to investigate the offer pretty thoroughly before deciding. How long is the contract for? Do I get to come back afterward? Am I likely to get along with space-merchants as well as I do with tall ship sailors? What's the work like? What kind of risks are involved? Can I keep my house? Can I communicate with family and friends from space? If I say no, will I ever get another chance?
That last question has a whole lot to do with whether or not I'd accept. I really like the plans I've got right now, and if the space offer could wait, I'd go ahead with the sailing. If it couldn't... well, I might just have to go for it (after collecting all the information and considering it carefully, which is how I tend to do these things). Provided I get to come back. I am really very fond of Earth.
I should say that I don't think I'd love Space like I love the Sea, nor a high-tech starship as much as a low-tech tallship. But a chance to visit other worlds, you don't pass that up lightly. Because, of course, the existence of space-merchants does imply there are other worlds to visit. And that makes me all shivery.
When I reach for my keys now, sometimes the way they feel startles me, with two less on the ring. Then I remember: oh yeah. I won't be needing those anymore.
That's what it feels like. Not like the buoyant rush of summer vacation. Just, every once in a while I notice a weight missing, and it dawns on me again: oh yeah.
And every time, it feels a little better.
The weather was absolutely wretched on Saturday, but I had fun anyway, shivering on the deck talking to the brave souls who wandered down the waterfront in the rain. (Some of them I even knew!) In the evening we sailed around the river getting whomped by the Lady in a mock cannon battle. Good fun, as my grandpa (also a sailor) used to say. Good fun.
Sunday I went to church, but today was my own Sabbath. Today I turned off the phone and spent half the day in bed. Today I have done nothing I didn't feel like doing. After several weeks of going almost nonstop, it's been really, really nice.
And today I finally had time to answer the five questions Sanguinity asked me. This is one of those self-propagating deals where if you ask nicely in the comments, I'll give you your own personalized set of five questions to answer in your blog, and then you have to make a similar offer to your readers, etc. Anyway, here we go:
1. Where would you most like to be a fly on the wall?
I have always wanted to spy on my ancestors, first and foremost those who chose to immigrate to America. (This is the first thing I'd do if I could time-travel.) They're all several generations back, so I never met them, but I'm curious about these people who got on a small boat and crossed the Atlantic to start over in a land they'd never seen before. What kind of people do this? It doesn't seem to have been poverty that motivated them, in most cases; why, then? What were they hoping to find -- or leave behind? And did they succeed?
And yes, specifically my ancestors, because every time I get to know another of my relatives, it feels like I'm filling in pieces of an immense jigsaw puzzle for which there is no box top. Parts of the picture become clear, and I go: oh, that's not a sandwich after all, it's a whale! Or whatever.
2. Books and ships: what was the first nautical book that caught your imagination; what is the book that has most inflamed it since?
I'm thinking the first one was probably Swallows and Amazons. I read and enjoyed several piratey books before then -- Captain Kidd's Cat, The Ghost in the Noonday Sun -- but that wasn't so much for the seafaring stuff as it was for the characters. Swallows and Amazons explained some basic sailing terms and concepts and made them immediate and relevant to the story, without coming across as didactic or overwhelming me with data. And it had fun characters too.
(Incidentally, one of my favorite parts of real-life sailing is also the characters. Privacy considerations prevent my blog from reflecting this as much as I would like; there is no alias I could assign that would conceal the identity of these people from anyone else who had sailed with them.)
Swallows and Amazons is about four English siblings who spend their summer holiday sailing a small boat in a lake. Their adventures inspired me to declare myself a pirate captain, a backyard cherry tree my ship, and my three siblings officers of a crew that was no less ferocious for being fictional. We recruited from Neverland, Florin, and ships of balladry. We preyed only on other pirates, yet swore allegiance to no land -- which of course meant we were exponentially more fearsome than pirates.
I've loved other nautical books since -- The Dark Frigate, The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle -- but the piece of writing that had the biggest impact on me was an article in my hometown newspaper, published in the early '90s, which interviewed several members of the crew of the Lady Washington. That's the one that made me say: I'm going to do that someday.
But that's not a book, is it? And neither is the movie, "Master and Commander," which is just incredibly cool from start to finish, and which I managed to watch at just the right time. I thoroughly enjoyed that book as well, but it didn't awe and delight me in the same way the same way the movie did. It is, however, probably the best nautical fiction I've read in the last 10 years, so if you didn't like my non-book answers to question #2b, Sang, that's it.
3. What's your favorite knot, bend, or hitch?
The bowline. If knots are a kind of magic (as believed by many primitives), this is a potent spell indeed.
I learned to tie the bowline several times, from a cousin, from a book, and from my dad, but the lesson that finally stuck was given on the dock in Westport by a blue-eyed sailor ten years my junior. He walked me through the steps over and over, told me a popular mnemonic narrative, and showed me a wrist-flip he used to tie it more quickly. There's a catch to learning knots from sailors, though; they always want to show off all the other knots they know. This guy was no exception. "Now," he said, "do you want to learn how to tie a dragon bowline?" I protested that I was still getting the hang of this one, but he said, "No, watch." Whipping a bowline into a large piece of line, he dropped the knotted end on the dock and walked a few paces, "dragon" it along behind him. I har-harred appreciatively, as did another sailor lad who had stopped to watch. "Okay, how about a Bangkok bowline?" my tutor asked us mischievously, swinging the heavy line. The other sailor backed abruptly away.
4. Of all the historic ships and voyages, what ship would you most like to see rebuilt (or wish had been preserved) and which voyage would you most like to go on? Would you rather go on the original voyage, or a re-enactment of the voyage?
I haven't actually read much about historical sea voyages, more's the pity. It would obviously be an exploratory voyage, not a boat full of Pilgrims or the like, but beyond that I'm not sure. The Beagle would certainly be a fun one. Johnny Keats and I are fairly enchanted with Balboa's discovery of another ocean on the far side of Central America, although he persists in crediting it to Cortez (look it up, John). Anyway, I really don't know. This question bears further investigation.
As a woman, I'd rather go on a re-enactment of any historical sea voyage than the real thing. If I could (temporarily!) change my gender, however, I'd go with the original.
5. If, as your sail date approaches, you had an option to crew with the space-merchants instead, would you?
My first thought was "In a heartbeat!" But I'm not really that impulsive; I'd have to investigate the offer pretty thoroughly before deciding. How long is the contract for? Do I get to come back afterward? Am I likely to get along with space-merchants as well as I do with tall ship sailors? What's the work like? What kind of risks are involved? Can I keep my house? Can I communicate with family and friends from space? If I say no, will I ever get another chance?
That last question has a whole lot to do with whether or not I'd accept. I really like the plans I've got right now, and if the space offer could wait, I'd go ahead with the sailing. If it couldn't... well, I might just have to go for it (after collecting all the information and considering it carefully, which is how I tend to do these things). Provided I get to come back. I am really very fond of Earth.
I should say that I don't think I'd love Space like I love the Sea, nor a high-tech starship as much as a low-tech tallship. But a chance to visit other worlds, you don't pass that up lightly. Because, of course, the existence of space-merchants does imply there are other worlds to visit. And that makes me all shivery.
Thursday, June 07, 2007
Which I Really Don't Have Time to Write.
I've been meaning to inform my local readers that the boats are in town for the Rose Festival. They've been in town all week, actually; I've just been too busy to blog. It's my last week of work, you see, and many things which have been put off can be put off no longer. And there's this other work-related conferencey thing I'm doing on top of that. And the boats are in town. Note that the timing on all this is just really wretched.
Anyway, I did get to visit them briefly last Sunday. I also got to crew for a sail last night, with my uncle and cousin as guests, and a good time was had by all. I'm always aghast at how much I forget about how to sail the Chieftain, and then in the next moment I'm astonished by the things I remember that I didn't even know I knew. Anyway, I'll be there all day Saturday too, helping with dockside tours 9 to 5, so feel free to wander down and say hi. If you're up for facing the Rose Festival crowds, that is, and I certainly don't blame you if you aren't.
I'm so tired. There's no good reason for me to steal time from other activities and go work on boats this week. It's not like I won't get my fill of that later this year, even to the point where I'll yearn to be off the boat. The best explanation I have to offer for this compulsion is something an old sailor told me in Long Beach last winter.
I was returning to the boat with a couple of my fellow sailors after an evening on the town, and this scruffy old salt struck up a conversation with us. (We didn't know him from any other sketchy guy wandering the docks, but later discovered he's something of a legend among tall ship sailors.) As we made our way back up the ramp to the boat, winding up the conversation, he asked us, suddenly assuming an Irish accent for reasons known only to himself, "So, ye been bit in the arse yet?"
The question confused us. Finally I got it: "Oh, you mean bit by the boat bug? The sailing bug?"
"Yeah. Ye been bit in the arse yet?"
We replied in the affirmative.
"Ah, well then ye're fooked," he said, shaking his head with grim satisfaction. "Ye're fooked."
Anyway, I did get to visit them briefly last Sunday. I also got to crew for a sail last night, with my uncle and cousin as guests, and a good time was had by all. I'm always aghast at how much I forget about how to sail the Chieftain, and then in the next moment I'm astonished by the things I remember that I didn't even know I knew. Anyway, I'll be there all day Saturday too, helping with dockside tours 9 to 5, so feel free to wander down and say hi. If you're up for facing the Rose Festival crowds, that is, and I certainly don't blame you if you aren't.
I'm so tired. There's no good reason for me to steal time from other activities and go work on boats this week. It's not like I won't get my fill of that later this year, even to the point where I'll yearn to be off the boat. The best explanation I have to offer for this compulsion is something an old sailor told me in Long Beach last winter.
I was returning to the boat with a couple of my fellow sailors after an evening on the town, and this scruffy old salt struck up a conversation with us. (We didn't know him from any other sketchy guy wandering the docks, but later discovered he's something of a legend among tall ship sailors.) As we made our way back up the ramp to the boat, winding up the conversation, he asked us, suddenly assuming an Irish accent for reasons known only to himself, "So, ye been bit in the arse yet?"
The question confused us. Finally I got it: "Oh, you mean bit by the boat bug? The sailing bug?"
"Yeah. Ye been bit in the arse yet?"
We replied in the affirmative.
"Ah, well then ye're fooked," he said, shaking his head with grim satisfaction. "Ye're fooked."
Thursday, May 31, 2007
Which Was Long Delayed.
I don't know, Kristi. I think after I don't blog for a while I stop thinking like a blogger, stop tagging daily experiences as bloggable and constructing blogworthy phrases in my head. Though not everyone agrees, I find "blogger brain" to be a desirable state: if the unexamined life is not worth living, the un-narrated life is doomed to be forgotten. And if an audience keeps you writing where a blank page wouldn't, well, you're still writing.
So I had some pretty good reasons for stopping blogging, and I've forgotten them (time, health, that sort of thing). And the above is my reason for not re-starting blogging as soon as I otherwise should have. And now I'm just really, really busy. In fact I'm at a conference in Texas right now, so I really should be going to sleep, but I just finished typing up the notes for a 4 1/2 hour meeting and I deserve some internet time, dangit.
Also, an invitation: fellow librarian hhw and I are coincidentally quitting within a week of each other. No, we don't work at the same library, but we're still throwing a Quit Your Library Job Party on Saturday, June 16th. It'll be a come-and-go thingy at Laurelhurst Park from 1:00 to about 5 p.m. I'll have more details for you as soon as I locate the very best picnic spot, but until then, as they say: save the date.
So I had some pretty good reasons for stopping blogging, and I've forgotten them (time, health, that sort of thing). And the above is my reason for not re-starting blogging as soon as I otherwise should have. And now I'm just really, really busy. In fact I'm at a conference in Texas right now, so I really should be going to sleep, but I just finished typing up the notes for a 4 1/2 hour meeting and I deserve some internet time, dangit.
Also, an invitation: fellow librarian hhw and I are coincidentally quitting within a week of each other. No, we don't work at the same library, but we're still throwing a Quit Your Library Job Party on Saturday, June 16th. It'll be a come-and-go thingy at Laurelhurst Park from 1:00 to about 5 p.m. I'll have more details for you as soon as I locate the very best picnic spot, but until then, as they say: save the date.
Sunday, April 29, 2007
In Which I Feel Strongly About Everything!
Boo for Blogger. Boo for updating my site without my permission. Boo for regurgitating my last 25 posts into your RSS feed.
Yay for inexplicably affordable shows by underrated Canadian bands. Yay for their crazy fans. Yay for venues where I don't have to crane my neck or stand on tiptoe to see the stage, even in a sold-out crowd. Yay for microphone-lickers. Yay for giant glass mooseheads. Yay for unexpected friend-sightings.
Boo for accumulated sleep debt. Boo for persistent eyelid twitching, like a hiccup on my face. Boo for low energy and a short fuse.
Yay for sunny weekends. Yay for cheap used bikes. Yay for the 205 trail.
Yay for commencement ceremonies. Yay for no more commencement ceremonies.
Yay for church. Yay for changing churches.
Boo for another Monday. Yay for another day.
Yay for inexplicably affordable shows by underrated Canadian bands. Yay for their crazy fans. Yay for venues where I don't have to crane my neck or stand on tiptoe to see the stage, even in a sold-out crowd. Yay for microphone-lickers. Yay for giant glass mooseheads. Yay for unexpected friend-sightings.
Boo for accumulated sleep debt. Boo for persistent eyelid twitching, like a hiccup on my face. Boo for low energy and a short fuse.
Yay for sunny weekends. Yay for cheap used bikes. Yay for the 205 trail.
Yay for commencement ceremonies. Yay for no more commencement ceremonies.
Yay for church. Yay for changing churches.
Boo for another Monday. Yay for another day.
Saturday, April 07, 2007
In Which I'm So Glad to Live in Portland.
Today marked the return of the Portland Farmer's Market. I love farmer's markets, but especially the first one of the year. It's a big green block party: live music, tasty food, everybody excited because the sunny season is coming back. I sat on a wet curb to eat a bowl of carrot ginger soup with cilantro pesto (oh my) and listen to a gentle, accordion-accompanied rendition of "In the Jailhouse Now." Pigeons came and went; a tiny girl paused with her daddy to say, "Hi birdies... hi birdies." A passing beagle leaned in to get a better sniff of my lunch. "Nope," I told him. "Not sharing." The stalls were full of goodness: fresh flowers, young plants, pastry and honey and smoked salmon.
I can wander around a place like that for hours, just comparison shopping and absorbing happiness, but today I didn't get there until near closing time. So I was a model of decisiveness and efficiency. Goat cheese: check. Giant cookies: check. Interesting meat: check (farmed elk? why not?). It had started raining by the time I was ready to leave, but I still paused by the bug booth to watch the ladybugs swarm around the terrarium... and walked away with a two-for-one deal on lacewing eggs. I got soaked on my way back to the car and I didn't even care. The sunny season is coming back!
I can wander around a place like that for hours, just comparison shopping and absorbing happiness, but today I didn't get there until near closing time. So I was a model of decisiveness and efficiency. Goat cheese: check. Giant cookies: check. Interesting meat: check (farmed elk? why not?). It had started raining by the time I was ready to leave, but I still paused by the bug booth to watch the ladybugs swarm around the terrarium... and walked away with a two-for-one deal on lacewing eggs. I got soaked on my way back to the car and I didn't even care. The sunny season is coming back!
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Which Blatantly Abuses Ranganathan's Third Law.
Wow, what an overwhelming response to that last post! Incredible.*
Okay, okay. Many of the books are Fairly Lame by both my standards and yours. It's true. But according to S. R. Ranganathan, there should not only be a book for every reader, but a reader for every book. Are you going to argue with the father of modern library science? I didn't think so.
I don't actually believe I'm going to get a lot of takers on the books I've posted, but I love the idea, and I think it has a lot of potential as a means of redistribution for those of us who have too much stuff (which describes most Americans). Can you imagine if everyone's blog/LJ/myspace had a list of things they don't want anymore, and are willing to give away? How fun would that be?
My experiences with swapping possessions through various venues has been really fascinating. Attending local clothing exchanges has not only improved the quality of my wardrobe, it has changed my attitude toward clothing entirely. Shopping for clothes can be hard for the frugal female; there's so much pressure to choose the right garments. If you spend money on something, you'd darn well better wear it enough to get your money's worth out of it, and if it gets stained or torn, well, you lose, loser. But if the clothing is free, all of that pressure is gone. These jeans don't fit quite like you want them to? Ahh, no biggie. Take 'em home for a trial spin, see how it pans out. If you don't want to keep them, bring 'em back to the next exchange. And if nobody wants them, they'll go to a women's shelter, not to a store that charges too much for your castoffs. On the other hand, they could end up being your new favorite pair.
Swapping books and CDs hasn't been quite as life-changing an experience, partly I think because of the more formal (one to one) trading structure, and partly because I get a little tired of shipping so much stuff. Don't get me wrong, I love those swaps too; they're just not as much fun as sharing.
So that's the idea behind the giveaway book widget.
*And while I was writing this post, or rather while my roommate was distracting me from writing this post, Tabitha commented on the previous one, so my snarky remark was invalidated. Thanks, TJ! You give me hope for the future of mankind.
Last night I saw Mew play at the Aladdin. The link is to one of those sites with audio that doesn't ask permission before playing, but it's a fairly accurate glimpse of how weird and cool their performance was... complete with surreal visuals projected on a screen behind the band. They are musically pretty interesting, and when they have a hook it's a powerful hook (see "The Zookeeper's Boy," which I posted a while ago), though many of their songs could be described as "completely hookless" or even "lacking a compelling melody." But considering the relentless multi-pronged hookiness of some of their compatriot musicians, I can see how they might want to avoid that from time to time.
One thing I never realized about Mew until I saw them live was that they have no female members. Wow. That's a lot of falsetto.
Anyway, good band, good show, but the one disappointment of the evening was the venue. Don't get me wrong, I love the Aladdin. But all day I was so sad that they didn't play at the now-defunct Meow Meow... because then I could have told everybody, "I'm going to see Mew at the Meow Meow," and they'd be all, "Are you even speaking English right now?"
Okay, okay. Many of the books are Fairly Lame by both my standards and yours. It's true. But according to S. R. Ranganathan, there should not only be a book for every reader, but a reader for every book. Are you going to argue with the father of modern library science? I didn't think so.
I don't actually believe I'm going to get a lot of takers on the books I've posted, but I love the idea, and I think it has a lot of potential as a means of redistribution for those of us who have too much stuff (which describes most Americans). Can you imagine if everyone's blog/LJ/myspace had a list of things they don't want anymore, and are willing to give away? How fun would that be?
My experiences with swapping possessions through various venues has been really fascinating. Attending local clothing exchanges has not only improved the quality of my wardrobe, it has changed my attitude toward clothing entirely. Shopping for clothes can be hard for the frugal female; there's so much pressure to choose the right garments. If you spend money on something, you'd darn well better wear it enough to get your money's worth out of it, and if it gets stained or torn, well, you lose, loser. But if the clothing is free, all of that pressure is gone. These jeans don't fit quite like you want them to? Ahh, no biggie. Take 'em home for a trial spin, see how it pans out. If you don't want to keep them, bring 'em back to the next exchange. And if nobody wants them, they'll go to a women's shelter, not to a store that charges too much for your castoffs. On the other hand, they could end up being your new favorite pair.
Swapping books and CDs hasn't been quite as life-changing an experience, partly I think because of the more formal (one to one) trading structure, and partly because I get a little tired of shipping so much stuff. Don't get me wrong, I love those swaps too; they're just not as much fun as sharing.
So that's the idea behind the giveaway book widget.
*And while I was writing this post, or rather while my roommate was distracting me from writing this post, Tabitha commented on the previous one, so my snarky remark was invalidated. Thanks, TJ! You give me hope for the future of mankind.
* * *
Last night I saw Mew play at the Aladdin. The link is to one of those sites with audio that doesn't ask permission before playing, but it's a fairly accurate glimpse of how weird and cool their performance was... complete with surreal visuals projected on a screen behind the band. They are musically pretty interesting, and when they have a hook it's a powerful hook (see "The Zookeeper's Boy," which I posted a while ago), though many of their songs could be described as "completely hookless" or even "lacking a compelling melody." But considering the relentless multi-pronged hookiness of some of their compatriot musicians, I can see how they might want to avoid that from time to time.
One thing I never realized about Mew until I saw them live was that they have no female members. Wow. That's a lot of falsetto.
Anyway, good band, good show, but the one disappointment of the evening was the venue. Don't get me wrong, I love the Aladdin. But all day I was so sad that they didn't play at the now-defunct Meow Meow... because then I could have told everybody, "I'm going to see Mew at the Meow Meow," and they'd be all, "Are you even speaking English right now?"
Monday, April 02, 2007
In Which Books Want To Be Free.
I just added a new LibraryThing widget to my page. The older one (below the archive links) is for books I'm reading; the new one (just under the moon) is for books I'd like to give away. (Please don't confuse the two.)
I have a small number of books I'm done with and ready to pass on, and a somewhat larger number that I acquired cheaply or free in order to build up a stash of credits on PaperBackSwap.com. This strategy worked well, but now that I have plenty of credits, there are quite a few leftovers I'm eager to dispose of. Disclaimer: None of these were acquired through the library that employs me. I maintain a strict distinction between my books and my employer's.
So these are the books that appear randomly in the new widget. All are in decent condition, but most aren't worth more than a buck or two. I could easily haul them off to a charity or donate them to my employer, and at some point I may. But here's the thing: I'm addicted to that glow of satisfaction I feel when I connect a book with someone who wants it. PBS has been a great way to get that fix. Maybe this will be another.
So here's how it works: if you see a book you want (or if you know someone or some organization that would benefit from it), just let me know via e-mail or comment, and I will give it to you next time I see you. If you live far away, I will mail it to you free of charge. If I don't know you, but we have mutual friends, I'll gladly pass it to you via our human link. If I don't know you and we have no mutual friends... hmm... well, leave me a comment with some kind of contact info, and we'll talk.
Of course, I'll be happy to provide more info on any titles that catch your eye. Later on I may even create a separate page where you can view all available books (there are currently 27), but for now, you'll just have to hit refresh if you want to see more.
I have a small number of books I'm done with and ready to pass on, and a somewhat larger number that I acquired cheaply or free in order to build up a stash of credits on PaperBackSwap.com. This strategy worked well, but now that I have plenty of credits, there are quite a few leftovers I'm eager to dispose of. Disclaimer: None of these were acquired through the library that employs me. I maintain a strict distinction between my books and my employer's.
So these are the books that appear randomly in the new widget. All are in decent condition, but most aren't worth more than a buck or two. I could easily haul them off to a charity or donate them to my employer, and at some point I may. But here's the thing: I'm addicted to that glow of satisfaction I feel when I connect a book with someone who wants it. PBS has been a great way to get that fix. Maybe this will be another.
So here's how it works: if you see a book you want (or if you know someone or some organization that would benefit from it), just let me know via e-mail or comment, and I will give it to you next time I see you. If you live far away, I will mail it to you free of charge. If I don't know you, but we have mutual friends, I'll gladly pass it to you via our human link. If I don't know you and we have no mutual friends... hmm... well, leave me a comment with some kind of contact info, and we'll talk.
Of course, I'll be happy to provide more info on any titles that catch your eye. Later on I may even create a separate page where you can view all available books (there are currently 27), but for now, you'll just have to hit refresh if you want to see more.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
In Which I Would Have Liked a Little More Notice.
Too bad I had to get online to find out that today is World Shutdown Day. Oops!
However, since I've already logged on and stuff, I figure I might as well resume my usual surfing habits.
However, since I've already logged on and stuff, I figure I might as well resume my usual surfing habits.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Which Is Possibly My Best Idea Yet!
You know what I think would be cool? If somebody programmed some really advanced voice synthesizer software that took into account all the physical factors influencing the sound of the human voice. And I mean all the factors: number/placement of teeth, dimensions of mouth/lips/tongue, diameter of throat, quality of vocal cords, lung capacity, abdominal force, size of nose, standard posture, sinus cavities, everything.
So once all the numbers were sufficiently crunched, then you could speak into this synthesizer, and it would process your voice and regurgitate it as that of a person whose physiology is different from yours in whatever ways you choose. Maybe not a specific person, exactly, but somebody with a smaller nose, and bigger tonsils, and some teeth missing, or whatever suits your fancy.
(Somebody could totally do this. I mean, it would take an awful lot of measuring, but computers these days are definitely up to processing the data.)
Okay, but then -- and here's the cool part -- you could also take the stats and adjust them to the anatomy of any animal you want.
You gotta know that, if your dog spoke to you, his voice wouldn't sound remotely human. Even if he were fluent in English, he would sound weirdly distorted, what with the long snout, all that extra tongue, and not much in the way of incisors. Or your cat: good at sibilants, yes, vowels no problem, but how would he manage those labial consonants? Aren't you curious about what that would sound like? Aren't you tired of waiting for him to learn?
And that's just the beginning. How would an elephant speak? A hamster? A crocodile? I really, really want to hear what it would sound like if a giraffe cracked a joke. Could a snake's whisper be intelligible? Would all birds have a similar inflection? Oh, it would take me a very long time to get tired of playing with a toy like this.
But aside from the quasi-scientific research, the "what if" factor (which, admittedly, is my favorite part), think of what this could do to the movie industry. The movies are full of talking animals, but do they sound like animals? No! I'm telling you, a real lion would not sound anything like Liam Neeson. Or Matthew Broderick. A giant wolf would not sound like Gillian Anderson, even after digital manipulation to make her growlier. And I bet a real piglet would sound waaa(eeeeee)y more annoying than Christine Cavanaugh's charming rendition. In this age of cinematic wonders, why are we still doing animal voices with Mr. Ed technology?
...We'll leave the teapots alone, though. Teapots can just go ahead and sound like Angela Lansbury.
So once all the numbers were sufficiently crunched, then you could speak into this synthesizer, and it would process your voice and regurgitate it as that of a person whose physiology is different from yours in whatever ways you choose. Maybe not a specific person, exactly, but somebody with a smaller nose, and bigger tonsils, and some teeth missing, or whatever suits your fancy.
(Somebody could totally do this. I mean, it would take an awful lot of measuring, but computers these days are definitely up to processing the data.)
Okay, but then -- and here's the cool part -- you could also take the stats and adjust them to the anatomy of any animal you want.
You gotta know that, if your dog spoke to you, his voice wouldn't sound remotely human. Even if he were fluent in English, he would sound weirdly distorted, what with the long snout, all that extra tongue, and not much in the way of incisors. Or your cat: good at sibilants, yes, vowels no problem, but how would he manage those labial consonants? Aren't you curious about what that would sound like? Aren't you tired of waiting for him to learn?
And that's just the beginning. How would an elephant speak? A hamster? A crocodile? I really, really want to hear what it would sound like if a giraffe cracked a joke. Could a snake's whisper be intelligible? Would all birds have a similar inflection? Oh, it would take me a very long time to get tired of playing with a toy like this.
But aside from the quasi-scientific research, the "what if" factor (which, admittedly, is my favorite part), think of what this could do to the movie industry. The movies are full of talking animals, but do they sound like animals? No! I'm telling you, a real lion would not sound anything like Liam Neeson. Or Matthew Broderick. A giant wolf would not sound like Gillian Anderson, even after digital manipulation to make her growlier. And I bet a real piglet would sound waaa(eeeeee)y more annoying than Christine Cavanaugh's charming rendition. In this age of cinematic wonders, why are we still doing animal voices with Mr. Ed technology?
...We'll leave the teapots alone, though. Teapots can just go ahead and sound like Angela Lansbury.
Monday, March 12, 2007
In Which I Wander in Darkness, and Don't Get Ice Cream.
Last night I went to a nearby Fred Meyer, which has been under major reconstruction for a few weeks now. Large segments of the store are walled off with sheets of plywood, other walls have been knocked out, floor tiles are torn up all over the place, aisles keep moving around. It's a little confusing, but not really a big deal.
This time, though, things were different. I mean, really different. Walking in, I got such a strong sense of the surreal that I had to do a mental check to make sure I was really awake.
A blown transformer down the block was the culprit: the store was running on generator power, which meant no climate control, no music, minimal lighting. Registers were up, but the freezer aisle was cordoned off. The store was dim and quiet, despite the many customers wandering around. Someone had replaced my mass-produced shopping experience with Plato's cave while I wasn't looking. The place even smelled different, faintly musty in an out-of-doors way, reminiscent of rain meeting dirt.
"Grocery shopping has never seemed so post-apocalyptic," I told the cashier. He laughed, then said, "It's a nice change of pace; makes you realize how much we rely on electricity.... The really fun part will be when the generator runs out in a couple of hours." I asked what would happen then, but he had to admit he didn't know.
I'm actually kind of sad that it won't be that way next time I visit.
This time, though, things were different. I mean, really different. Walking in, I got such a strong sense of the surreal that I had to do a mental check to make sure I was really awake.
A blown transformer down the block was the culprit: the store was running on generator power, which meant no climate control, no music, minimal lighting. Registers were up, but the freezer aisle was cordoned off. The store was dim and quiet, despite the many customers wandering around. Someone had replaced my mass-produced shopping experience with Plato's cave while I wasn't looking. The place even smelled different, faintly musty in an out-of-doors way, reminiscent of rain meeting dirt.
"Grocery shopping has never seemed so post-apocalyptic," I told the cashier. He laughed, then said, "It's a nice change of pace; makes you realize how much we rely on electricity.... The really fun part will be when the generator runs out in a couple of hours." I asked what would happen then, but he had to admit he didn't know.
I'm actually kind of sad that it won't be that way next time I visit.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
In Which I Consult the Oracle.
I know I haven't blogged in a while, but my roommate and I had an appointment with a safe in Minnesota, and what with the cops and the angry villagers and the zombie smilodon, the whole thing just took a little more time than we'd planned for. Anyway, don't worry about that, everything's fine now.
The following Q&A isn't new, but it looked like fun, and it was. I found it here (no, I don't know her, but I feel like I should).
The game is iPodomancy, and the way it is played is thusly:
1. Put your MP3 player on shuffle.
[I don't actually own one, but iTunes or other audio software will suffice.]
2. Press forward for each question.
[Or just listen to the track and ponder its significance while multitasking in other windows.]
3. Use the song title as the answer to the question.
I've included some of the best tracks for your listening pleasure.
How am I feeling today?
"If I Could Split" - Kite Flying Society
Okay, that's definitely how I was feeling at work today.
Will I get far in life?
"Call Me What You Like" - Puffy AmiYumi
Huh. I'm thinking this is the equivalent to the Magic 8-Ball's "Reply hazy, try again."
How do my friends see me?
"No Wow" - The Kills
Tough crowd, you guys.
When will I get married?
"Your Light is Spent" - Final Fantasy
I don't know what that means, but I'll hold off on picking the dress.
What is my best friend's theme song?
"Sunset" - The Appleseed Cast
I have multiple best friends, so I guess they can fight over this one. It's instrumental, laid-back, feel-good music that sounds more like a random cut from a soundtrack than a theme song, but all my best friends are pretty weird, so whatever.
What is the story of my life?
"Fantasia for Clarinet" - Modern Quartet vs Kocani Orkestar
That's... really abstract, man.
What was high school like?
"A100" - Billy Corgan
Why yes, my high school GPA was indeed over 4.0. And your assumptions (based on this information) about my social life at that time are likely to be accurate.
How am I going to get ahead in life?
"Blessing in Disguise" - Tom Vek
Oh. Whew. That's a relief.
What is the best thing about me?
"Lie Still, Little Bottle" - They Might Be Giants
So which is it, iTunes? My tendency to inertia or my (lack of) chemical dependency?
How is today going to be?
"Wish Me Luck" - Ofra Haza
I can't really argue with that.
What is in store for this weekend?
"Gene Clark" - Heroes and Villains
Who is Gene Clark? Maybe I should do some research.
What song describes my parents?
"Disappear" - My Brightest Diamond
I'm having trouble thinking of a context in which this answer would be accurate... except for a really terrible pun context: Dis a pair.
What song describes your grandparents?
"Eugene at Caroline's" - Eugene Mirman
Wait, this is not a song track. I'm not counting it.
"So Begins Our Alabee" - Of Montreal
Alabee is the infant daughter of the guy who wrote the song (I looked it up). I guess this is appropriate insofar as my grandparents all had children... though none of them were named Alabee.
How is my life going?
"Kaddish" - Ofra Haza
According to Wikipedia, Kaddish is (or comes from the) Aramaic for "holy." It refers to a central blessing of the Jewish prayer service in which God's name is glorified, but also to rituals of mourning. So... yeah, pretty much.
What song will they play at my funeral?
"So Passes Away the Glory of the World" - Typhoon
Oh definitely. The only lyrics to this overblown, unremittingly somber dirge are "Sic transit gloria mundi." Of course, you'd better follow it up with some outrageously cheery non sequitur, like "The Swimming Song" by Loudon Wainwright III.
How does the world see me?
"Onions" - Heartless Bastards
Um... same to you. You heartless bastards.
Will I have a happy life?
"The Cry of Man" - Mary Margaret O'Hara
That doesn't sound promising, does it?
What do my friends really think of me?
"Kaefusafi" - Stafrænn Hákon
Hey! Are you guys secretly Icelandic?
Do people secretly lust after me?
"Remedy" - The Black Crowes
I'll take that as an affirmative.
How can I make myself happy?
"Jaan Pehechaan Ho" - Mohammed Rafi
Listen to more Bollywood soundtracks. Ah. Good advice, iTunes Oracle.
What should I do with my life?
"Greenland Whale Fisheries" - Van Dyke Parks
You don't say! Stay tuned for the whale poaching revival of '09, kids.
Will I ever have children?
"Your Eyes Have It" - Bullette
Possibly maybe. Got it.
What is some good advice for me?
"Moonlighter Prizefighter" - Yellow Jacket Avenger
Yeah, I'll... have to think about that. Thanks.
What is my signature dancing song?
"Into Tomorrow" - The Waxwings
I can do slow waltzes, but signature? Come on, iTunes. Give me some credit here.
What do I think my current theme song is?
"Tango Till They're Sore" - Tom Waits
Yeah, why not? "Send me off to bed forevermore." As long as I get a new theme song tomorrow, because by "forevermore" I really mean "a good eight hours."
What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
"Já Sei Namorar" - Tribalistas
Man, you win, everyone else. That song rocks. I don't speak Portuguese, but according to Google Translate, the title means "Already I know to namorar." So true. So true.
What type of men/women do you like?
"Graffiti" - Maximo Park
Men with Scottish accents, obviously.
What kind of kisser are you?
"Samson" - Regina Spektor
Mighty good.
What's your style?
"A Parade" - Kuryakin
Oh iTunes, you enigmatic tease, you.
What kind of lover are you?
"Use It" - The New Pornographers
Not that kind.
What would be playing on a first date?
"Today" - Jennifer O'Connor
"Today I stop guessing and give you my heart..." Whew, that'd have to be one good first date.
Where do you see yourself in 10 years?
"Middle of Nowhere" - Hot Hot Heat
Now we're talking, iTunes. But with that many questions, you're bound to get some right. I deem your prognostications unsatisfactory overall, and your position as soothsayer is hereby REVOKED.
The following Q&A isn't new, but it looked like fun, and it was. I found it here (no, I don't know her, but I feel like I should).
The game is iPodomancy, and the way it is played is thusly:
1. Put your MP3 player on shuffle.
[I don't actually own one, but iTunes or other audio software will suffice.]
2. Press forward for each question.
[Or just listen to the track and ponder its significance while multitasking in other windows.]
3. Use the song title as the answer to the question.
I've included some of the best tracks for your listening pleasure.
How am I feeling today?
"If I Could Split" - Kite Flying Society
Okay, that's definitely how I was feeling at work today.
Will I get far in life?
"Call Me What You Like" - Puffy AmiYumi
Huh. I'm thinking this is the equivalent to the Magic 8-Ball's "Reply hazy, try again."
How do my friends see me?
"No Wow" - The Kills
Tough crowd, you guys.
When will I get married?
"Your Light is Spent" - Final Fantasy
I don't know what that means, but I'll hold off on picking the dress.
What is my best friend's theme song?
"Sunset" - The Appleseed Cast
I have multiple best friends, so I guess they can fight over this one. It's instrumental, laid-back, feel-good music that sounds more like a random cut from a soundtrack than a theme song, but all my best friends are pretty weird, so whatever.
What is the story of my life?
"Fantasia for Clarinet" - Modern Quartet vs Kocani Orkestar
That's... really abstract, man.
What was high school like?
"A100" - Billy Corgan
Why yes, my high school GPA was indeed over 4.0. And your assumptions (based on this information) about my social life at that time are likely to be accurate.
How am I going to get ahead in life?
"Blessing in Disguise" - Tom Vek
Oh. Whew. That's a relief.
What is the best thing about me?
"Lie Still, Little Bottle" - They Might Be Giants
So which is it, iTunes? My tendency to inertia or my (lack of) chemical dependency?
How is today going to be?
"Wish Me Luck" - Ofra Haza
I can't really argue with that.
What is in store for this weekend?
"Gene Clark" - Heroes and Villains
Who is Gene Clark? Maybe I should do some research.
What song describes my parents?
"Disappear" - My Brightest Diamond
I'm having trouble thinking of a context in which this answer would be accurate... except for a really terrible pun context: Dis a pair.
What song describes your grandparents?
"Eugene at Caroline's" - Eugene Mirman
Wait, this is not a song track. I'm not counting it.
"So Begins Our Alabee" - Of Montreal
Alabee is the infant daughter of the guy who wrote the song (I looked it up). I guess this is appropriate insofar as my grandparents all had children... though none of them were named Alabee.
How is my life going?
"Kaddish" - Ofra Haza
According to Wikipedia, Kaddish is (or comes from the) Aramaic for "holy." It refers to a central blessing of the Jewish prayer service in which God's name is glorified, but also to rituals of mourning. So... yeah, pretty much.
What song will they play at my funeral?
"So Passes Away the Glory of the World" - Typhoon
Oh definitely. The only lyrics to this overblown, unremittingly somber dirge are "Sic transit gloria mundi." Of course, you'd better follow it up with some outrageously cheery non sequitur, like "The Swimming Song" by Loudon Wainwright III.
How does the world see me?
"Onions" - Heartless Bastards
Um... same to you. You heartless bastards.
Will I have a happy life?
"The Cry of Man" - Mary Margaret O'Hara
That doesn't sound promising, does it?
What do my friends really think of me?
"Kaefusafi" - Stafrænn Hákon
Hey! Are you guys secretly Icelandic?
Do people secretly lust after me?
"Remedy" - The Black Crowes
I'll take that as an affirmative.
How can I make myself happy?
"Jaan Pehechaan Ho" - Mohammed Rafi
Listen to more Bollywood soundtracks. Ah. Good advice, iTunes Oracle.
What should I do with my life?
"Greenland Whale Fisheries" - Van Dyke Parks
You don't say! Stay tuned for the whale poaching revival of '09, kids.
Will I ever have children?
"Your Eyes Have It" - Bullette
Possibly maybe. Got it.
What is some good advice for me?
"Moonlighter Prizefighter" - Yellow Jacket Avenger
Yeah, I'll... have to think about that. Thanks.
What is my signature dancing song?
"Into Tomorrow" - The Waxwings
I can do slow waltzes, but signature? Come on, iTunes. Give me some credit here.
What do I think my current theme song is?
"Tango Till They're Sore" - Tom Waits
Yeah, why not? "Send me off to bed forevermore." As long as I get a new theme song tomorrow, because by "forevermore" I really mean "a good eight hours."
What does everyone else think my current theme song is?
"Já Sei Namorar" - Tribalistas
Man, you win, everyone else. That song rocks. I don't speak Portuguese, but according to Google Translate, the title means "Already I know to namorar." So true. So true.
What type of men/women do you like?
"Graffiti" - Maximo Park
Men with Scottish accents, obviously.
What kind of kisser are you?
"Samson" - Regina Spektor
Mighty good.
What's your style?
"A Parade" - Kuryakin
Oh iTunes, you enigmatic tease, you.
What kind of lover are you?
"Use It" - The New Pornographers
Not that kind.
What would be playing on a first date?
"Today" - Jennifer O'Connor
"Today I stop guessing and give you my heart..." Whew, that'd have to be one good first date.
Where do you see yourself in 10 years?
"Middle of Nowhere" - Hot Hot Heat
Now we're talking, iTunes. But with that many questions, you're bound to get some right. I deem your prognostications unsatisfactory overall, and your position as soothsayer is hereby REVOKED.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
In Which Answers Only Lead to More Questions.
And voila! In a bold stroke of genius, Mr. Whybark (yes, the very same Whybark mentioned in the previous post) enters the words "Minnesota hanging doll" into Google, and gets a) my blog, and b) some answers (in that order, oddly enough).
(I know, duh, but this actually hadn't occurred to me. Apparently I was more interested in wondering about the doll's origins than actually finding them out?)
Turns out the doll is not actually hanging. It's just sitting in the window, as you can see in this photo (shamelessly yoinked from the KAAL TV website):
He looks a little bored, if you ask me.
So there's an old doll sitting in the window of an old farmhouse in the dinky town of Janesville, MN. Big deal, right? But the plot thickens up a bit when you realize that Ward Wendt, the guy who first put the doll in the window in 1976, is not only keeping mum about his reasons, but he has written them down in a letter which he then placed in a time capsule and buried in the park across the street. The capsule is not to be opened until 2176.
Like anybody will even care then. That house will be long gone by 2076. It's like a dare!
Anybody up for a roadtrip to Minnesota? Bring shovels and headlamps.
While writing this, I was listening to They Might Be Giants' Flood, a work of deranged genius that exceeds even Ward Wendt's, and I began wondering just what that bluebird nightlight looked like. (If you know the album, you know the one.) Well... I think I found it.
(I know, duh, but this actually hadn't occurred to me. Apparently I was more interested in wondering about the doll's origins than actually finding them out?)
Turns out the doll is not actually hanging. It's just sitting in the window, as you can see in this photo (shamelessly yoinked from the KAAL TV website):
He looks a little bored, if you ask me.
So there's an old doll sitting in the window of an old farmhouse in the dinky town of Janesville, MN. Big deal, right? But the plot thickens up a bit when you realize that Ward Wendt, the guy who first put the doll in the window in 1976, is not only keeping mum about his reasons, but he has written them down in a letter which he then placed in a time capsule and buried in the park across the street. The capsule is not to be opened until 2176.
Like anybody will even care then. That house will be long gone by 2076. It's like a dare!
Anybody up for a roadtrip to Minnesota? Bring shovels and headlamps.
* * *
While writing this, I was listening to They Might Be Giants' Flood, a work of deranged genius that exceeds even Ward Wendt's, and I began wondering just what that bluebird nightlight looked like. (If you know the album, you know the one.) Well... I think I found it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
