This Turned Into a Travel Blog

Brazil - Chapada Diamantina - Part 3

2012-01-21T20:10:00.003-07:00

On my last full day in Chapada Diamantina, we straight-up went to Oz, brick road and all. At least that’s what it felt like. The road that took us up the mountains wasn’t yellow, but it was cobbled, narrow, and had a storybook quality to it. Our car bumped up and down its stony path, as it climbed ever higher into drizzly, green mountain peaks. At the top was the small village of Igatu. Like Oz, Igatu felt exotic and mysterious, especially with the bright pockets of light glittering along the wet stone streets. And when the rain finally began to let up, the people of Igatu came out of hiding like Munchkins.

It was the rain that took us there in the first place. We had planned on spending the day in the wetlands, taking a boat through grassy swamps. But with the constant heavy downpour threatening to make the whole park into wetlands, we opted for less boating and more driving. Igatu is on the opposite end of Chapada Diamantina, to the south. The drive was relaxing. Dida’s playlist was a mixture of ambient electronica and sultry French singers. Even with the steady swiping of the wipers clouding the windshield, the outside landscape was captivating.

Along the way we stopped at Poço Encantado (Enchanted Well). This was one of those rare places, the likes of which I’ve seen on television or in travel magazines, but for me always felt like a fantasy-element; as if something so strange and alien couldn’t quite exist in our reality. Seeing it in person is awe-inspiring: a perfectly formed underground lake in a vast cavern, crystal-clear.

The water is so transparent that the first explorers of the cave hadn’t noticed it was there until some rocks slipped onto the surface and it rippled. 120 feet deep, rocks and ancient tree trunks are clearly visible at the bottom. Sunlight spills in from an opening high up the cavern wall and certain times of day it gives the water a deep blue hue. We sat in the cave a long time, staring at the water. It was dark, and I didn’t get my camera settings the way I wanted, so my photos don’t do it justice. Photos on Google Images get it better, but nothing I’ve seen quite captures it.

It was still raining by the time we reached the top of that crazy brick road and Igatu. The streets were empty. Once a town of thousands, the current population is less than 300. I was taken with the charm of Lençois, but Igatu took charm to a whole new level. Such a fantastic little village. We stopped briefly at Dida’s vacation home there, a studio-sized space seemingly carved into the walls of an alley, with a tiny front room, a kitchen, and a loft for sleeping. We would have spent the night there had we more time. Too bad!

We had lunch at an empty Pousada which was ridiculously bright and cozy. I wanted to spend a week there, just enjoying the place. Instead, we headed to the edge of town and hiked down to the ruins. The mountains of Chapada Diamantina used to be choked full of diamonds and diamond mining was big business before supply was depleted and the whole operation shifted to Africa. In its heyday, Igatu was heavily populated with a thriving community. Now, the old part of the city has fallen into ruins going back more than a century. It looked much older. The stone houses and walls are crumbling away, overgrown with vegetation. It all felt almost Paleolithic. I expected scruffy cavemen to come stumbling out, scratching their bellies.

A friend of Dida’s runs a gallery and museum in a little villa at the edge of the town cemetery. We stopped there to admire the antiques from the ruins in their glass display cases, browsed the art on display, then relaxed in the café with fruit ice cream. The rain had let up, but the smell of it was still thick. I could have sat there for a long time, but we had to go. The day was waning, and there was a long drive back to Lençois.

We spent the evening in darkness. The rain had somehow damaged the electrical grid, and Lençois lost power. No one was fazed. I guess it’s a regular occurrence. The main street was teeming with people, faces appearing in the dim candlelight the restaurants set on their outside tables. The mood was festive. A few restaurants down from ours, a tourist plucked at a guitar, and people sang. The lack of power limited our menu options, but the gas ovens still worked, and so, delicious pizza! Later I fell asleep with a book and a flashlight, waking abruptly at 2 a.m. when the fan in the room started noisily spinning. Power was back.

Dida drove us to the bus station early the next morning and we said our goodbyes. He had been a fantastic guide and if anyone reading this ever makes it to Chapada Diamantina, look the guy up! Despite everything I saw, there was still so many things I wish I could have seen. Leaving Lençois in many ways felt like leaving unfinished business. I need to get back there one day.

Brazil - Chapada Diamantina - Part 2

2012-01-04T20:40:00.002-07:00

Dida said we were going to spend Sunday morning “walking around town.”

“That sounds nice and low-key,” I thought. It’s a great little town and I wouldn’t mind the break.

“What should we bring?” Sean and I asked.

“Oh you don’t really need to bring anything,” said Dida.

“What about a swimsuit?” I asked, wanting to be prepared for whatever.

“Well of course you’ll need a swimsuit. You always need a swimsuit with you.”

That should have been my first clue not to trust Dida.

What was described to us as “walking around town” turned into an epic hike in the high places above Lençóis. As we passed the hours pulling ourselves up steep, rocky paths, it occurred to me I should not have brought the extra bag containing a towel and change of clothes, dangling and bouncing against my neck, along with the heavy camera backpack. I felt like a pack mule in flimsy sandals.

“So, Dida,” I said as we scaled a boulder. “In what feasible way can this be described as ‘walking around town?’”

“What?” Dida said. “We are walking around town. This is walking around town.”

Oh, Dida.

The thing is, the hike was incredible. Every part of it was filled with striking scenery. Dida brought along two other tourists, both from Spain: a doctor and a short guy whose occupation I forgot. Together we went first to the area just above town, where water flowed across rock shelves, pocked with small pools. Sunbathers and splashing children were spread thick across the scene.

As we climbed higher, we hit green-water pools and cold waterfalls, stopping to swim or admire the views of Lençóis and the jungle valleys below. We hiked and hiked, passing through shade and hot sun, the colors surrounding us a palette or tan, rust orange, and ever-vibrant green. By the time we made it back to town for lunch, my sandals had come apart. I had first bought them on the island of Hainan (China). It was fitting they’d die in another foreign land.

We swam and slid away the afternoon. A mile or so walk from the opposite side of the town, there are more rocky pools, these ones filled with ominous black water that felt like it could suck you down at any moment. The pools are fed by a thin flow of water across an incline of rock; essentially a giant Slip n’ Slide. And I loved it, despite the bruises I acquired on my tailbone as I found higher and higher spots to launch myself down.

It rained throughout dinner. It rained all night and all the next morning. I watched it as I gently rocked in the balcony hammock, overlooking rooftops and trees. I read, I watched, I napped. I thought about what I’d be doing if I was 6,000 miles away, back in California. Nothing like this.

Brazil - Chapada Diamantina - Part 1

2012-01-01T15:07:00.002-07:00

Lençóis is Portuguese for linen or sheet. The town of Lençóis, tucked up against the huge national park Chapada Diamantina, gets its name from, well, laundry. Okay, it’s a bit more romantic than that. Surrounding the city there’s a series of rocky shelves where water flows and collects in small pools. To this day, people do laundry upon the rocks, and spread colorful clothing out in the sun to dry. It’s a charming scene that adds charm to an already charming town. There is so much charm up in this place.

We got there by bus, Sean and I, about 8 hours of it. Much of the country can be seen this way. The long-distance buses are air-conditioned, with comfortable chairs that allow room for sleeping. There’s a bathroom with a window in it, where you can even watch the miles of green jungle vegetation stretch on and on, occasionally broken up by small towns and cities, all while you do your business.

It was approaching midnight when we finally rolled up into the cobblestone streets of Lençóis. Our guide, Dida, was waiting there with a sign. He had been recommended by Sean’s art institute and turned out to be a fun, friendly fellow, fluent in French, Portuguese, Spanish, and (most importantly) quite adept in English from the time he spent as an exchange student in Montana. We had booked a Pousada in town (Pousada dos Duendes, or "the Two Gnomes") and decided to stay there despite Dida’s offer to stay at his house. It sounded quaint, Dida's house, up on a hill overlooking the city, but it wasn’t yet hooked up to the electrical grid and, call my crazy, I prefer electricity. As it would turn out, power is a fickle creature in Lençóis, and not always available following anything more intense than, say, a light rain. But our Pousada was comfortable, packed full of other friendly international tourists, and the rooms had hammocks on the balcony. I could see why the internet reviewers were so fond of it.

The next day I was awoken by so many cocks. I thought maybe since we had come in the dead of night I hadn’t noticed that Lençóis contains no actual people but is populated entirely by roosters. And each of those roosters has its own pet rooster who in turn owns several rooster farms, and all of them together are so enraged by the morning sun that they must simultaneously voice their displeasure. It’s that energizing morning punch-in-the-face that gets you ready for an exciting day. It was appropriate.

Dida collected us after breakfast and had planned a strict regimen of amazingness for the day. Chapada Diamantina (translation: Diamond Plateau) is 1,500 kilometers of beautiful landscapes. It is semi-arid, so there are many drier, deserty parts that don’t resemble much of Brazil, but there is also plenty of wetlands and jungle. Lençóis, which acts as a basecamp, subsists largely on ecotourism, and many visitors spend upwards of a month exploring the park. We had 4 days, but we made them count.

We got our feet wet, figuratively and literally, on a hike along a river that first morning. The river, surrounded by rocky canyon walls reminded me a bit of Zion National Park, if you replaced the vegetation and changed the color of the stone. I was in my element. There are few things I love more about America than its national park system. Ken Burns rightly called it “America’s best idea” and I was pleased to learn that Brazil has 67 protected parks of its own.

Mid-hike we came upon a rock cliff where you can take a zip line down into the water, so of course I had to do this. Fun: check. (Note: that's me splashing down in the picture below. Sorry about the guy with the back hair).

Next up was a cave, where we put on hard hats and listened to the familiar definitions of stalactites and stalagmites and the explanations of thousand-year-old formations. The cave guides were a family that own a small restaurant and garden just outside, where passion fruit and fragrant herbs grow in abundance. Our lunch was served family-style, with a healthy variety of rice, beans, spiced cactus, fried banana, grains, and beets. Everything was delicious.

I took another zip line, later in the afternoon, down into a lake being fed by the water flowing out of another cave. The water there is turquoise in the sunlight and clear with hundreds of tiny minnows that schooled around my legs each time I waded in. It was hot, but the lake was cool, and floating in it was a delight. We chatted with a few guys from our Pousada, two from Italy and one from Switzerland. We seemed to bump into a lot of our fellow travelers wherever we went, as everyone, regardless of their guide, seemed to end up at the same places on the circuit. Dida knew everyone, and everyone knew him, no matter where we seemed to go. Saw another cave on the way out. This place be cavey.

Later, we drove through the park to the high, flat cliffs that give Chapada Diamantina the nickname, “Grand Canyon of Brazil.” It was a steep hike to the top, but it was quite a view. Up there, the flora was made up of spiky cactus and other succulents growing right out of the rock. Still, flowers seemed to cover everything. It’s funny how with only a short drive the landscape of the park would change dramatically. It was like visiting several parks in one.

By the time it was dark, we were back in Lençóis. A couple narrow streets are all that make up the downtown but, due to all the tourism, there’s a large variety of restaurants. I was surprised how good everything was. Every place we ate at was so ridiculously delicious. Lençóis is pretty much in the middle of nowhere with few permanent residents, but even in the heavily-populated, urban Salvador I never ate half so good. That first evening we tried the town’s one vegetarian restaurant. Okay, Restaurant, how did you make my soy burger taste that amazing? What kind of sorcery is this? Or maybe it was the pleasant exhaustion one feels after a long, active day that somehow enhanced the taste of everything like a magic MSG. Whatever. Food was grub.

Brazil - Salvador - Part 2

2011-12-27T10:16:00.000-07:00

In Pelourinho, there’s an elevator that divides the upper and lower city. The view from up top is fantastic: the lower-city bay, turquoise and dotted with ships, edged up against the Mercado Modelo, a crazy flea market. Melody and I met Sean and another Sacatar artist at the elevator, where they had just come in from Itaparica island. Together we visited an African and anthropology museum, which had very few descriptions in English, but a lot of great stuff to look at. We met Gary for lunch at the “Boobie Restaurant.” I don’t remember the real name, but there were paintings of bare-breasted Brazillian women everywhere for some reason. And then onto another museum. This time in an old Catholic church which featured paintings, sculptures and other religious art. The museum had as many hanging, bloody Jesuses as the boobie restaurant had boobies. Interesting contrast.

Sean had to head back to the island, so Melody and I continued on to Pelourinho again to do some window shopping and kill some time before the big show. Every tourist center and person we met suggested we watch the “Balé Folclórico da Bahia” which features traditional African rhythms and music, capoeira, and fire dancing. It was quite spectacular, especially the capoeira dancers whose athleticism was astounding. Before the show, I talked to a group of young Aussi/New Zealanders who were sitting one row up. One kid with shaggy, Bieber-hair and a very thick Kiwi accent asked if I was American. “I heard you talking in the lobby,” he said. “Your accent is sooo strong.” Hah!

After the show, Melody and I had dinner back in Barra, and enjoyed a nice long chat. I really lucked out with the TravBuddy thing. Melody made a great traveling companion and I was sad to see her go the next morning. We had planned to take a bus to the airport (much cheaper!), her to catch a plane to Rio, and me to recover my long-lost luggage. But by morning it had started to rain so hard, the corridor of the Pousada flooded. We had to take a taxi for the 45 minutes instead. When I finally laid hands on my wayward bag, I was ecstatic. The rain let up enough for me to catch the bus back to Barra, and I immediately showered and changed into fresh clothes. Heaven!

Then it was off to the Mercado Modelo, the lower-city flea market, with some friends from the Salsa club: Johana, Hamurabi, Gabrielle, and Older-Man-From-Japan/Orange County. It was some kind of national holiday, so the market was packed with people. One skanky lady in particular would not stop dancing and swinging her bleached hair around. Round and around and around. She was like a machine. It was hypnotizing.

I sampled a bunch of local food and drink. My favorites: fried cheese on a stick with some kind of sweet oil, and this hot dog thing that had so many interesting toppings you could barely taste the meat. In the afternoon we caught a bus along the beautiful coastline to a neighborhood north of Barra for more deliciousness. We finished the day back in Barra, sitting at tables with a view of the sea. The night was cool and breezy, a welcome relief. More of Johana’s friends joined us and we were entertained by two drag queens with microphones. They had a whole comedy routine going on, but I didn’t understand a word of it. Judging from the reaction of the crowd it was hilarious? They did lip-sync several American power ballads pretty convincingly. There was more to that night, but this is enough for the blog. The next day I would be in a totally new place, far away from the coast.

Brazil - Salvador - Part 1

2011-12-24T09:47:00.002-07:00

PREFACE

The problem with blogging a long trip is always the details. There are just too many of them. A typical non-vacation day would be easy to summarize. Wake up. Spend 11 hours or so in a car and at work. Then a few semi-eventful hours in the evening: take care of kids, or work on a personal project, prune the tomatoes, watch television, yawn, and then: finito.

Brazil was not like this. Most days in Brazil felt like a week compressed into 24 hours. Towards the end of the trip, when I was alone and parked in a hammock in a remote guesthouse in a remote part of a sleepy island, life finally slowed down. But not in the packed days in Salvador, or the long days in Chapada Diamatina, where it seemed all I did was go, go, go, and see, see, see.

The details all scuttle past each other, trying to get to the front of the line. Some are shoved aside in their frantic pursuit to be known and I don’t have the energy, nor the will to call them back. Here are some that made the cut.

SALVADOR

In terms of population, Salvador is the third largest in Brazil, behind Sao Paulo and Rio. It is also one of the most economically unbalanced, with slums and shantytowns amongst modern infrastructure and tourist areas. During my 4 days in the city I stayed in a pousada (guesthouse or small hotel) called La Villa Francaise. It’s run by two ladies from France. My reasoning was simple: my Portuguese is pretty non-existent (and almost no one speaks English in Salvador) but at La Villa Francaise I was guaranteed to be able to communicate in at least one language. It worked out. The pousada is in the touristy Barra neighborhood, 5 minutes walk from the beach. The streets (like most streets in Salvador) could still be dangerous at night, but it felt relatively safe.

My flight had been long, and I was sick through most of it: sore throat, fever—my body’s not-so-subtle way of screwing with me. “Oh, so you want to have a great vacation?” it says. “Well guess what: BAM! awful sickness! Hah! Didn’t see that coming did you? Hahahah” What an asshole.

The thing is, I was so ticked at the prospect of spending 15 days shivering in a sick bed, that I fought back. “Oh so that’s how you want to play this?” I told my body. Well how about I just go and march right into the ocean? Huh? You wanna become a bloated corpse, huh? I WILL *&#-ING DO THIS!”

“Okay, be cool,” my body says, slowly backing away. “It was a joke, for giggles, that’s all. I’ll be good.”

And a day later I was feeling just fine. Probably didn’t smell great, tho. The airline had lost my luggage and I had to buy a change of clothes at an overpriced mall. I wore those clothes for 3 days, in the heat and humidity. I showered a lot, but still.

INTERLUDE

I guess I should interject here and briefly explain why I was in Brazil in the first place. First off, it had felt way too long since my last international trip (China). Second, I had just completed 7 months of very taxing work days, made even lovelier with a 2-3 hour daily commute. Family life was…complicated…as it has been since I moved back to California. I needed to get away. So when my friend Sean told me he would be spending a couple months in an artist residency program in an island off the coast of Salvador and also that I should come visit, I thought: Yes, this is a thing that I should do.

And so, after buying a round-trip ticket and dealing with the long headache of my visa, here I was on a new continent, in a country I honestly didn’t know much about (subsequent internet research and reading has helped me remedy that somewhat.) I also would be traveling mostly solo, since Sean was on an island 90 minutes off the mainland working on art, and we would only hang out for about a third of the trip. I’m generally okay with being alone. I prefer it more often than not. Solo vacations have many high points: you pick your own schedule; you do whatever you feel like doing at any particular moment. But for me, solo vacations are never sustainable over the long-run. Fine for a few days, maybe, but if not planned right, then comes the repressive feeling of isolation, of being cut-off from everyone you know and love by a distance of half the world. It can get lonely.

I planned for this. I went on TravBuddy (a site for meeting travel friends) and asked if anyone else would be in Savador when I was. And the next day I was contacted by Melody, who lives in Los Angeles and happened to be traveling in Salvador for some of the days I was. We talked by email, then by phone, and on my second day in Salvador she arrived at La Villa Francaise, staying in the next room. That was easy.

PELOURINHO

For two days, Melody and I explored the city together. It’s a funny situation. You meet someone for the first time and then proceed to spend nearly every waking minute with that person, packing in as much as you can. It doesn’t necessarily matter if you aren’t instant bosom friends—you already share the same immediate goals: explore this foreign place. Get to know it. Getting to know each other is just bonus. We managed to fit in both.

Most of our escapades took place a short taxi ride away in Pelourinho, the historic center of the city and main tourist draw. The buildings are centuries-old colonials in bright, sunny colors, intersected by hilly, cobblestone streets and narrow alleyways. There are old, ornate cathedrals and a scattering of museums all along the main plaza. Vendors and capoeira dancers are plentiful, and so are police, who keep the area safe for tourists.

At the Terreiro de Jesus we met Gary, a Scottish sportswriter living in Dubai. He spoke English and so the three of us spent the rest of the day together. When things in Pelhourino started to close, we hopped a cab to the modern art museum. It was being renovated, but the area around it was gorgeous: a boardwalk along the shore, a small beach, a sculpture garden.

We were back in Barra by sunset, walking along the beaches of Porto de Barra, and the lighthouse of Praia de Barra. The light was perfect, and my camera kept busy.

Later, the 3 of us hopped a cab back to Pelhourino for a street party. We arrived just after a band had stopped playing, but the narrow streets were still packed with party-goers. And then it started to rain. Hard. Ducking into a small bar, we talked to a New Yorker who recommended a salsa club somewhere nearby. The rain didn’t let up so Melody took a cab back to Barra, while Gary and I soldiered on. The rain grew heavier, but the streets were still flooded with people, some pressing themselves against the buildings where short overhangs kept back a bit of the deluge. We finally found the club, which was African-themed with a live band and a whole lot of friendly Brazilians. It’s amazing how much conversation you can have with only a few words, a lot of hand gestures, and patience. By 3 a.m., I was headed back to Barra in a taxi with some of our new friends: Johana (who spoke English) from Columbia, Hamurabi, a piano professor from northern Brazil, and others whose names I’ve misplaced. A good night.

China Video - Part 4

2010-05-17T12:12:00.002-06:00

... and here's part 4.

China Video - Part 3

2010-05-07T21:32:00.002-06:00

Part 3 is now up on Vimeo. On a completely unrelated subject, I'm currently stranded in St. George, Utah and it is Boring Alert, giving me ample time to do stuff like post part 3 on the internet. Too bad Vimeo won't let me post part 4 until next week or it would be so posted right now.

China video - Parts 1 and 2

2010-04-29T16:45:00.004-06:00

So I've made a 16-minute video of my China trip and divided it into 5 internet-friendly sections for your viewing enjoyment. Parts 1 and 2 are up on Vimeo now. Unfortunately, Vimeo will only let me upload one HD video a week, so the other parts will have to follow the next few weeks.

Here's Part 1

And Part 2

I'd embed the videos, but Vimeo only allows embeds in SD. Bu hao! Links it is.

Fight Nights and Water Streets

2010-03-09T12:48:00.001-07:00

I'm home, safely back in the good ol' USA. Already I've celebrated my return with a visit to Carls Jr which my body promptly rejected. I had been eating a lot of non-processed foods in China. I think my body is telling me I need to keep that practice up or else it'll get all barfy on me again. Trust me, it doesn't mess around.

Despite my current non-Chinese location, I believe I have a couple China posts left in me. So here we go:

It had been pouring rain all week in Shanghai, as covered in the last post, and Ness and I were spending a lot of time in the apartment where it was dry and we didn't have to look and feel like drowned rats. Still, there's only so much internet to surf before you're all surfed out – which meant we needed to get out. A visit to Ramsey's gym was a good diversion.

The Sai Rui MMA and Fitness Club is on the 6^th floor of an office building on Wuzhong road, a quick bus ride from the apartment. Ramsey started it with his business partner, another expat, several months ago, and it's an impressive facility, with a full fighting cage, heavy bags suspended from the ceiling, an aerobics/dance room, showers, massage room, weights and other work out equipment. I got to experience one of Ramsey's fitness classes first-hand as he took Ness and I through a kettle bell routine. Turns out I'm not very good at coordinated repetitive motion, especially when it involves squatting a lot and swinging a heavy kettle bell between my legs. Good thing Ramsey is good instructor, and I ended up learning a lot, just ask my hopelessly sore legs and thighs.

That night there was a brawl. Okay, not so much a brawl as a planned fighting event which brought three local gyms together to compete along with a bunch of MMA enthusiasts, their supporters, and a few small children. A fighting magazine even came to cover the event, attaching fancy cameras to the tops of the cage to capture the action. The whole thing was very multi-national, with Americans, Brazillians, Russians, Germans, and Chinese in attendance. The Russians seemed to be the most into it, shouting loud encouragement to their countryman during a kickboxing match. Their enthusiasm was infectious. One of my favorite bouts involved a guy who showed up randomly from the street. He was a portly Chinese dude, his belly hanging out and his helmet too small to fit over his chins. One of the on-lookers called him Kung Fu Panda – and it was really the perfect name, considering the crazy arm movements he was doing between punches. Just awesome.

The next morning it rained even harder, but we went out in it anyway. Ness wanted to show me Qibao, a famous water street filled with small shops, street food, and traditional architecture. It was a lovely place, but man were we drenched. Umbrellas didn't seem to stop my shoes from filling with water, my clothes absorbing every last bit of moisture, the sharp wind turning me into a walking refrigeration unit. It just didn't let up, and yet the street was packed with people. We had dumplings at a small shop in an alley, grateful to be out of the downpour for a little while, and then ended up cutting the visit short. It was just too much damned water. We fought the rain, and the rain won.

On an unrelated note: if you like cheese, don't go to China. For some odd reason it is really hard to find, and when you find it, it's pricey as all hell. $10 for a small bag of shredded cheddar. Boo! Same for sour cream. Worth it tho. My last night in China we ate tasty, tasty burritos, most everything made from scratch. Our tortillas could have been rounder (they looked like someone had dropped dough balls from a very high building) but it all tasted so delicious! I love me the Chinese food, but after a full month of it, Mexican really hit the spot.

Shanghai Days

2010-03-04T01:23:00.002-07:00

We're in the final stretch. There's not many days left before it's goodbye China and so I'm spending the remaining time back in Shanghai, avoiding any more trains and planes save for the one that will carry me back to LA. So turns out Shanghai learned my time here is short and that I had been hoping for sunny weather in which to explore and romp about the city. Well, Shanghai says to itself, it says, “Ain't no way I'm letting that jerk off easy,” and at that very moment the clouds opened up and the rain came a' tumbling down.

It hasn't let up. A quick check on the internet forecasts stormy days the entire rest of the week. If Shanghai had a face, it would have my foot in it.

Ness and Ramsey are back to work, welcoming a new class of students who already speak way better English than I could ever hope to speak Chinese, even if a funnel was shoved down my throat, foie gras-style, and giant chunks of Mandarin were forced through. Considering it took me practically this entire trip just to remember how to count to ten, I'm not sure there's hope. Bu Hao.

I joined Ness and Ramsey in some of their classes on Tuesday and had fun soaking in that whole dynamic. My favorite thing was hearing the “American” names the students had chosen for themselves. Most students stuck to the conventional ones: Michael, Lily, Kristen, etc. Others were a little more...creative, with names like Tree, Grape, Demon, Linky, and BlackSister (yes, BlackSister). One guy so proudly announced his name, Fantasy, that we just didn't have the heart to tell him that Fantasy is a stripper name. Well, Ness, didn't have the heart. I would have told him if she'd let me.

When not at the university, Ness and I have been wandering the soggy streets of Shanghai in search of good restaurants or cheap souvenirs to bring home to the nieces. Saw the Propaganda Poster Art Center, stuffed away in the basement of an apartment complex (super fun to find!). The posters are all original prints, and there are hundreds. Upon learning our nationality, the owner, Yang Pei Ming, followed us around and pointed to the images of long-nosed crazed-looking American caricatures and chortled incessantly (It was weird, but you kind of just had to laugh along with him.) When I pointed to my own long nose and then back at the posters, that set him off even further. He spoke pretty decent English and helped us decipher a lot of what were were seeing. In the posters, Mao is always depicted as valiantly leading peasants and workers against Western imperialists, or holding smiley children, or surrounded by a village family, their modest home stuffed with the bounties of harvest (this while the Great Leap Forward was starving millions). One of my favorites was of students on a train, waving their little red books happily as they are being sent to the countryside to be re-educated through hard labor. Gotta love that stuff.

Wuzhizhou Island and the Tropical Fruit of Death

2010-03-02T05:35:00.002-07:00

If you're going to spend hours throwing up into the sand, there's no better place to do it than Wuzhizhou Island. Really. It's a gorgeous little island, with clear waters, white sand beaches, and iconic temple-like structures jutting out in the ocean. Teddy, a cool English-speaking guy from Shanghai who we met on the way to Monkey Island, strongly recommended Wuzhizhou be part of our Sanya itinerary.

So we went the very next day. Booked a car with our hotel and sped off in the early morning light. It was on the short ferry ride to the island when it first hit Vanessa: the sickness, origin unknown. Our best guess is bad tropical fruit consumed earlier, exasperated by close-quarters inside the rocking ship. “Do you have a bag?” she asked. I did not, but I could tell one was desperately needed. Quickly rummaging through my belongings I found a small kleenex package which I de-kleenexed and handed over. She promptly threw up inside of it, sending chunks onto me and onto the floor. I next opened and emptied a package of dried plums, which she soon filled.

Then it got worse. Scrambling off the ship as it docked, we found a spot on the beach for her to continue her expulsions. Did you know the beach is a great place to vomit? It is. Lots of sand to bury the mess and soft on the knees to boot. While she recovered I searched for water and took some time to get my bearings. The pedestrian path above the beach was crowded with tourists and trams constantly beeping their horns. I found small market stands where I collected water and further down there was a bathroom. Most important, I found less-crowded, shady sections of beach where swimming was prohibited and Ness could continue to barf in peace.

When I got back, she was face down in the sand, half conscious and rather belligerent (excess vomiting will do that to a person). I had to coax her up to follow me to the shadier spot which she conceded was a better choice. Our car wasn't scheduled to pick us up until much later that afternoon, so for the moment we were marooned. I spent most of the hours that followed tending best I could to Ness, taking pictures, and walking along the shore collecting coral. At one point Ness felt well enough to go for a dip, and we enjoyed the cool waters in the swimming area before heading back to our spot at Upchuck Beach so Ness could get back to work.

On the ferry ride on the way back, the sickness at last hit me. As soon as we touched shore I raced for a bathroom. It was downhill from there. All the rest of the day, and all the rest of the night, Ness and I took turns vomiting. I have never vomited so much in my life, even during my worst food poisoning experience in Africa. Of course the vomiting was peppered with plenty of diarrhea, as everything we had ever consumed was determined to escape our bodies thorough any orifice available. (Now there's a fact I bet you wish you didn't know.)

Lest you think this was all a cakewalk, we returned to our rooms to discover we'd both been horribly sunburned. The expensive fake Avon-brand Chinese sunblock turned out to be just as useless as the face whitener. Soon we were further burning up with fever, our teeth chattering as we lay on our hard Chinese mattresses listening to the sounds of mosquitoes buzzing past our ears. At one point, close to midnight, I stumbled down the stairs to the reception desk to request more toilet paper and bottled water. Ness couldn't get out of bed, so it was left to me to try and explain our needs, mostly through pantomime. My throwing-up action, followed by flashes of fingers to indicate multiple times made the reception desk lady's eyes grow wide. It would surely have been comical to any third party passing by.

Fever does strange things to your head. While I struggled and struggled for sleep, between heavy sessions in the bathroom, all I could hear was the never-ending chorus of “Nobody” by the Korean Spice Girls wannabee group, the Wonder Girls (as seen on Chinese MTV.) I think that was the greatest torture of all. No matter what I did to try and block it out, that same insipid chorus is all I heard over and over again. Ness was similarly plagued by Shakira's “Gypsy.” I'm not sure which one of us was luckier.

We got through it. Having secured a late-check out, we slept much of the sickness away, waking in the afternoon and stumbling wearily to the airport.

But let's not choose to remember Wuzhizhou for all the stomach fluids we left there. Let's skip right past that part in the film reels of our minds and instead focus on these beautiful, vomit-free photographs. For all our sakes.

Monkey Island

2010-02-28T21:04:00.001-07:00

It must be said that Ness's primary motivation for coming to Sanya, more than the scenery, the ocean, and the warmth, was the monkeys. There's a whole island full of them - just off the southern coast of Hainan island. Home to over 2,000 macaque monkeys, the island's primary purpose is to be a nature preserve. Secondarily, however, it's quite the tourist attraction, with several acrobatic shows in which the performers are all ticked-off looking monkeys (oh, and a pony...and also a goat.)

The monkeys were great (more on them in a bit), but getting to the island was the best part. After the hour-long drive through rural Hainan, with pointy-hatted workers bent over rice paddies, small fruit plantations, dilapidated buildings, and strange species of pigs and cows wandering the streets in families, we arrived at said best part: the overseas cable car. It looks like a ski-resort gondola, only a lot more terror-inducing, with sagging spans of cable and sudden drops. It's a short trip, maybe 10 minutes, but it's magic. As the car took to the skies, we stared wide-eyed at the gleaming blue ocean below which, after a short stretch, transitioned to vibrant rain forest hills of uninterrupted green. As the cable reached an apex, the car lurched downward towards the forest, the ocean now on our left. It was pure beauty, seen from a rare perspective, and I was reluctant to get off.

And then the monkeys. They were everywhere, sitting on the side of paths, hanging from trees, climbing on the sign posts marking the way to various attractions. One smacked me on the backside with both palms as I passed by. Not sure what that was all about. We took in two shows which were pretty amazing, but not without a tinge of guilt. I don't think this kind of thing would fly in more sensitive countries. Some of the monkeys looked less-than-thrilled to be balancing on increasingly tall stacks of wood, walking on stilts, riding the backs of ponies, peddling small bicycles off ramps, or doing handstands on the back of a goat which itself was on a tightrope. Yeah. Don't pretend you wouldn't want to see that.

Side note: what is it about being the only foreigners at a place that makes the locals think you're part of the tourist attraction? As is often the case, Ness posed for photo after photo with random people. I sat off to the side and people snuck photos when I wasn't looking. Weeeird.

After the shows, we further walked the monkey-filled paths and stopped at the various observation areas. There were swimming monkeys, monkeys holding flags, monkeys you could pose for a photo with. I struggled a bit getting about, my foot and knee still badly sprained from having too much awesome on a boogie board. At one point, a man yelled something loudly in my face, pointing at my leg, which Ness roughly translated as "Your leg is hurt." Nice one, Sherlock. Despite the injury, I had a good time. After all, it was an island full of monkeys. Cute, playful monkeys. What's not to like?

Hainan

2010-02-26T05:33:00.002-07:00

I am on a tropical island in southern China. The last couple weeks of shivering in six layers of clothing are behind me. Here in Sanya, along Hainan's southern coast, it is in the 80s, hot and humid.

Hainan advertises itself as “The Hawaii of the Orient.” In truth, it has a long way to go before it is a fair comparison to Hawaii. The climate and foliage is similar, but the crowded rush of people and mismatched development is still very China. Our hotel is on Dadonghai beach, across a parking lot from wooden boardwalks that line the waterfront, shaded by thick palm trees. The ocean here is cool, but not cold – perfect for escaping the heat. The beach itself can be crowded, but there are non-congested areas where the sand is soft with room to relax and swim.

It's like the vacation from my vacation.

After Beijing I spent a few days at Ness's place in Shanghai, not doing anything touristy, just spending time with Ness and Ramsey and writing all those blog entries on Beijing. Ramsey hasn't been able to travel with us at all this trip. Ness has time off from teaching, but in addition to his English classes, Ramsey is an instructor at a Mixed Martial Arts gym he co-founded. His fitness classes keep him glued to Shanghai, with no time to venture elsewhere for the moment. A shame. It would be nice to have him along.

We took the metro and then maglev train to the airport, instead of our usual bus/taxi combo. It's the only operating maglev in the world and at 267 miles an hour, floating above a track of giant magnets, it's pretty damn fast.We got to the airport with time to spare.

Then, as things are wont to do, everything went to hell. We had booked our flight via Lu who used a Chinese website. Our e-tickets were printed out entirely in Mandarin characters, so neither of noticed we were supposed to fly out of the small, regional Shanghai airport and not Shanghai Pudong International. When the guy at the check-in desk informed us of our mistake, the look of utter shock and terror on our faces must have been priceless. We had an hour before the flight and the other airport, far across the opposite end of the city, took at least an hour to get to.

So we ran, our luggage hefted onto our shoulders, back onto the Maglev, hearts pounding. You know you're in dire straights when you're internally screaming for a train that travels 267 mph to go faster. From the maglev stop, we hopped on a taxi and told the driver to step on it. He complied, darting through cars on the expressway like a maniac, his hand constantly on the horn. Through some miracle we made it before the flight took off. It helped that the check-in and security lines were practically empty. It wasn't until I was on the plane that I at last let myself breathe.

Nothing like a warm beach to de-stress from a panic attack. And it's pretty dang nice here. I ended up shaving the beard I'd been maintaining the last four months to stave off the heat. We spent forever trying to find sunblock. I would have thought it'd be readily available since this island is thick with pale Russians – half the signs in the Cyrillic alphabet. The first tiny bottles we found started at $25. Yuck. After more searching we found something cheaper that said spf 30 on it and of course ended up being face whitener. I figured this out when I spread it on my face and instantly turned into Casper. It was a horrifying sight. I do NOT need to be any whiter.

Consequently, we sprung for the expensive stuff.

And this post has already gotten too long, with so much left to say: the paper hot air balloons floating above the darkened beach on the last day of the Spring Festival. The huge fireworks exploding overhead, so close we could feel their heat, as waves lapped against our toes. The strange screeching lizard that woke me up in the middle of night, perched next to my head. My unfortunate accident on a boogie board (I'm still limping).The fact that the not-quite-snug swimming suit I bought here keeps getting knocked off by waves (I've managed to avoid exposing myself to everyone on the beach...mostly).

The days have been full. It's been good.

Beijing Addendum – Terrible Trip to the Tombs

2010-02-23T10:27:00.002-07:00

The plan was to visit the Ming Tombs on the way back from the Great Wall. This is what most tourists do, since the tombs are 50 kilometers from the city. The internet made it seem so simple: take the 919 (slow) bus from the Wall to a stop that connects it with the 314. Take that bus directly to the Tombs and voila: more sight-seeing bliss. Easy-peasy.

Wrong. The real instructions, at least in our experience, have many many more steps. So here they are, for your edification.

Jeremy and Vanessa present “Instructions for getting to the Ming Tombs from the Great Wall”

Look for the the 919 (slow) bus at the entrance outside the wall. Ignore scores of fake taxi drivers shouting, “Hello, Taxi, Hello. Ming Tomb. Hello” into your face. Find a parking lot full of 919 buses. Approach official-looking lady and hear her argue with her coworker in Mandarin over who will deal with the foreigners. Ask, in Mandarin, where the slow 919 bus is. Be told it's “behind” with vague gestures. Walk in the direction she points, asking two other people along the way who also declare it's “behind” something. Walk a huge staircase to an area that looks “behind” the parking lot. See nothing. Walk back down. Ask again. Be told it's actually a steep climb further up the mountain. Experience strong desire to hurt someone. Begin ascent.
Walk at least 25 minutes through tunnels and past signs before finally reaching another 919 parking lot. Discuss how this other location could even remotely be considered “behind” the previous parking lot. Shake fist in anger.
Realize new parking lot is a mix of “slow” and “fast” 919 buses. Ask several people which buses are “slow” and which “fast.” Realize no one knows anything. Get help from a man who asks around the parking lot. Finally be led to a bus that says “Fast Slow” bus. Yes, “Fast Slow.” Look for a baby to punch in the face.
Settle on the “Fast Slow” bus as only alternative. Queue up in a disorderly mass of people. Wait. See bus pull up and be forced inside by the shoving mob of bodies. Notice every seat on the bus is already taken. Get crammed further and further back into the aisle as more people get on. Have no room to breathe. Try to keep from passing out from the heat and stink of bodies. Watch the lady in the seat nearby throw up into a bag. Travel for 20 minutes of agony, cursing your parents for having met.
Hear a stop announced, not matching your desired stop. Get off anyway, pushing past bodies as you go. Celebrate the “fresh” air and freedom from discomfort. Notice the bus lady is shouting at you for having not paid for the 20 minutes of hell. Keep walking. Hear the lady chasing you down, tugging on your arm. Quicken your pace.
Lose the bus lady around a corner. Notice you're in a ghetto. Get harassed by several more fake taxi drivers. Find a toilet, regroup. Walk back to 919 bus stop. Jump on next bus and blessedly find a seat in the back. See the new bus lady approach for money. Pay glady – then immediately be asked to move forward to front of the bus as your stop is approaching. Get off.
Check the bus stop for any sign of the connecting 314 bus to the Tombs. See nothing. Absolutely nothing. Where is this mythic 314 line? God only knows. Ask around for any information. Receive bubkiss. Then a lady who speaks surprising good English appears. Breathe a sigh of relief as she describes a 314 bus stop that will go to the Tombs. Retract relief as she informs you the stop is at least a 20-minute walk away. Curse loudly.
Begin walk. Continue walk. Walk and walk and walk. No stop. No 314. Freeways, and streets, and hobos. Feel a wave of utter defeat sour your spirit. Wait on a corner for a long time. Hail a taxi. Ask the driver if he's heard of stop 314. The taxi driver does not, because he is brand-new. Of course he is. OF COURSE HE IS BRAND NEW!
Tell the driver to take you home, away from this horrible place. He does not understand. Where is this Beijing metro stop you speak of, he asks. Really, taxi driver? Really? Swallow your pride and call your friend Lu. Hand the driver the phone. Hear a long stream of Mandarin. Watch as the driver looks further confused, then defeated, trying to work his GPS. Get out of the taxi.
Walk back the way you came as Lu searches the internet for a route to bus 314. Finally reach where the bus dropped you off. At Lu's suggestion, get on bus 376, which takes you past a fork in the road to another stop. Realize this was where the English-speaking lady was pointing all along. Try and find bus 20, a route Lu says will take you near the tombs. No bus 20. Cross the street and search the bus stop there. And suddenly there it is on a rusty metal placard: the mythic bus 314! Whoop and jump around in sheer ecstasy.

Squeeze into the crowded bus when it finally arrives, ignoring the pungent alcoholic breath of the old man pressed next to you, and the foul, rotting breath of the man who announces each stop by wheezing into your face. Whatever, this is bus 314 – blessed 314. Next stop: the Ming Tombs.
Next stop is not the Ming Tombs. Nor is the stop after, or after that. But eventually, yes, the Ming Tombs. The mother #@*ing Ming tombs at last.

And so we arrived, 4 hours after leaving the Wall, at the famous Ding Ling tomb, the only tomb excavated of all the Ming Tombs. It was a hour before closing and the place was virtually deserted, making our visit almost peaceful. We took the long stairs down to underground chambers, saw the burial sites of the Emperor, his Empress, and many concubines. Saw thrones and artifacts in the museum. Very satisfying.

In retrospect, we should have done a little more research before trying to take the bus. Our source had listed the wrong stop, the cause of most of our problems. The correct stop was available upon further search. Still, even with all the correct info, the 919 (slow) bus is a horrible steaming pile of dung. Never take it. Repeat: never take it. It is a blight upon the Earth, a scourge against humanity, a great evil.

Triumph upon our arrival.

Underground tomb entrance.

Beijing - Day 3 - Great Was the Wall

2010-02-22T19:56:00.001-07:00

There are many ways to get to the wall, located out in the low rolling mountains northwest of Beijing. Most tourists get their hotel to arrange a bus, some hire a taxi for the day, others fall for the so-called private tours which stop at jade factories along the way, encouraging them to shop for cheap souvenirs for hours before finally dropping them at the less scenic sections of the wall, closer to the city. Ness and I opted for the official Chinese (cheaper) route – the 919 bus.

Of course this way is also confusing as hell. To get to the right 919 bus stop, one must walk several blocks from the metro stop past several other 919 buses going in the opposite direction. There's also fake 919 buses, claiming to be the official line, and even people who will tell you the 919 bus stopped running and offer their tour as an alternative. All this must be ignored. The official 919 bus is green and white, situated behind Deshengmen, a large tower gate. We got there in the early morning and hopped on the 919 “fast” version (there are 2 versions), which doesn't have any stops along its hour-long route and only costs 12 yuan.

That part was a breeze. Getting back from the wall, on the other hand, was an unmitigated disaster. It is is a tale of much horror and woe, but I will leave the telling of it for the next post, in the interest of brevity.

It's funny how a visit to the wall seems synonymous with any trip to China. It's the main event, so to speak. I surely wasn't going to let this trip pass without seeing the ancient relic. And now suddenly I was there, and so was the wall. Miles and miles of it, rolling along the mountain ridges, clear as day. Ness and I purchased a ticket and then walked the steep steps to the watchtowers higher up, taking it all in. It was crowded, and perhaps that detracted somewhat from the majesty of it all, but still – we were on the mother-lovin' Great Wall of China.

Facts you may not know about the Wall:

You can't see it from space. That is one of those persistent myths, one that I'd been told my whole life and was later surprised to learn to be false when designing the Great Wall section of a textbook. It stands to logic that a relatively narrow object that blends into the landscape could never be seen that high up, but who thinks these things through?
Much of the wall has crumbled into ruin. Only select portions of the wall have been fully restored, a few near Beijing. The section we were at, Badaling, is the most heavily visited, but other long stretches can be reached.
The wall turned out to pretty much suck as a defense. It was breached twice, first by the Mongols, then by the Manchu. Oops.
In 2007, the Wall was voted as one of the New Seven Wonders of the World. And rightly so.

You can walk the wall for as far as you like. Way off in the distance, we could make out several ant-like figures still marching along its heights. We didn't go that far, but we certainly got our fill. Then instead of walking down, we elected to go by pulley– a roller coaster-like vehicle that winds down the mountain to the tourist stalls near the entrance. And for some reason there is a bear at the bottom you can throw apples to. Whatever, the pulley was awesome.

We will now fast forward to later that night, skipping the Ming Tombs fiasco for the moment, to our ride along the new Olympic metro line to the Bird's Nest, as seen in the 2008 Summer Games. Currently the Bird's Nest is filled with snow and has been converted into a kind of winter wonderland – complete with indoor ski slopes. We decided not to pay the 50 yuan to get in (having had plenty of winter wonder, thanks) and instead walked along the boardwalk outside. Everything was lit up, including the ultra-modern Water Cube, where all the swimming competitions were held. Best of all the boardwalk wasn't crowded, and despite several vendors trying to sell us kites (look, 7^th kite lady, if I didn't buy a kite from the first 6 kite ladies, I won't be buying yours), it was a peaceful stroll after a long, long day.

Beijing - Day 2 - Palaces and Temples

2010-02-22T03:56:00.004-07:00

Grannies playing hacky sack. That's the first thing that greets you as you step through the entrance and into the park-like corridors of the Temple of Heaven. It's quite a sight: circles of old folk, mostly women, spread out in small clumps kicking feathered hacky sacks high into the air with surprising skill. One lady catches a sack with her forehead, balancing it on her brow with a low chuckle before letting it fall back to her waiting feet. It's hard to tell if these women are demonstrators or just enjoy the “sport.” Yes there are vendors spread throughout the crowd, selling the feathered sacks. But the number of these circles gives the impression that hacky sack, much like at a freshman dormitory, is a common game in these parts.

The Temple of Heaven is where the Emperor would pray for a good harvest in the days of the Ming and Qing dynasties. There are gorgeous circular buildings and wide rectangular halls in the ancient Chinese style. We were lucky to visit during Cultural Week. Halfway through our wanderings, the inner square was roped off and scores of figures in colorful traditional robes performed a sort-of Tai-Chi with weapons. Awesome. The whole complex is huge. We walked a lot, stopping at sections of interest haphazardly. The Circular Mound Altar was swarming with people behaving as if in a punk concert mosh pit, shoving their way to stand on the altar where the Emperor made a burnt offering to Heaven. Through all the feet, we were at least able to catch fleeting glimpses of the altar.

We passed an outdoor market on the way out, stopping to buy dried kiwi. Back on the streets we realized the metro entrance was at another end of the complex, far away, and there was no way back in, short of paying again. Thankfully we found a bus back to south Tiananmen (Ness recognized the correct characters) and walked the tunnel under the street to the Forbidden City, dodging more “art students” and suited-men demanding we take their travel service to the Wall.

The Forbidden City covers a smaller area than the Temple of Heaven, but it has a lot more buildings – a small city's worth, essentially. This is where Emperors, their households, the entirety of the government lived for five centuries, cut off from the common people. It is a feast for the eyes, every alleyway and enclosed garden felt like walking through another age. Still, it was hard not to think of the enormous gap between the lifestyle of the royal and peasant-class. I had the same thoughts at Versailles years ago– the sheer opulence of that palace is almost suffocating, especially taken in the context of the time. Unlike Versailles, however, the excesses of the Forbidden City are more aesthetically pleasing, with intricate sculpted dragons and painted archways, and not so much gold-plated this, and jewel-encrusted that.

Later that night the city exploded into celebration. Up until now fireworks had been going off daily ever since the start of the New Year, louder and more frequent in Beijing than in Mudanjiang or Harbin. But this night in particular was intense. Searching for a restaurant on the street near our hotel, we dodged explosions left and right. Rockets whizzed passed our heads, sparkling fountains of light sprouted in every direction. It was like moving through a war zone, bright and chaotic and deafening. We later learned it was the 5^th night of the New Year festival – the birthday of the Chinese god of wealth. All the fireworks are to get the god's attention, ensuring his favor and good fortune.

Ball's in your court, Money god. Best deliver.

Beijing - Day 1 - Tiananmen

2010-02-21T20:31:00.006-07:00

The plane from Harbin to Beijing was temperamental, jerking about in the windy skies like a Parkinson's patient. By the time the landing gear deployed, the plane was experiencing full-on convulsions. A dozen barf bags ripped opened in unison. The first sound of hurling set Vanessa off. Others followed in much the same way dominoes fall. I clutched my bag, trying to block out the audio. It didn't help that they had fed us fish.

We arrived at our hotel in one piece, if slightly lighter. I had booked the place purely on location (and price), just outside of Metro Line 2; so I was thrilled when it turned out to be a charming, comfy place – with architecture in the style of an old Chinese courtyard, inner garden, and staff in traditional dress. Check-in hit a snag when they had no idea what this “Orbitz” was we had booked with, but we got through it.

Then I was locked out of my bag. We had bought luggage locks to keep our stuff safe on the trains. Now the combination to one particular lock had decided to change itself. We tried 50 variations of the original combination but nothing. At last I was able to jimmy off the zippers that held the lock in place, a crude but effective solution. Panic concluded, we hopped on the metro and went to Tiananmen Square.

It was strange to be walking through a place I had read so much about in my study of modern Chinese history. Beyond the several books on Mao Zedong's life I have read, I have designed sections in history textbooks on the Great Leap Forward and the Cultural Revolution. Tiananmen Square is always featured prominently in these books – a gathering place for the Chinese masses to hear their godly leader. So as we approached Mao's giant hanging portrait at the far-end of the square, it didn't surprise me that I had a “Mona Lisa Moment.”

Let me explain. Da vinci is a sort of historical hero of mine. Here's a man so thoroughly gifted in both art and science, who lived such a colorful life. He was always my answer to the cliched hypothetical question: “If you could have lunch with one figure throughout human history, who would it be?” His most famous portrait, the Mona Lisa, has become its own sort of cliché. It's familiar to everyone, seen everywhere. Despite its historical significance, in many ways it has become the epitome of art mundane. Yet, many years ago, when I approached it for the first time at the Louvre, I experienced the strangest sensation. Seeing the actual portrait, not some photograph, gave me goosebumps, took my breath away.

And so it was with the giant portrait of Mao. I felt a chill just staring up at his smug, crazy-eyed face. The man killed more then 50 million people with his destructive policies, razed countless works of art and literature from existence, silenced intellectuals and anyone with an opposing voice. Not a good dude. All the same, the giant portrait of Mao on Tiananmen square has made my short-list of “Mona Lisa Moments.” Congrats Mao, you bastard.

As the sun set, we watched the official flag-lowering ceremony on the square along with hundreds of Chinese and a few foreigners. Beijing is a tourist-friendly city, with an easy-to-figure-out Metro system, plenty of signs and announcements in English, and abundant scammers waiting for a mark. We were approached by “art students” who spoke very good English and claimed to be in Beijing on holiday. While conversing, they led us through a park, and to a coffee shop. They seemed annoyed when we declined the invitation to go in – but I had read too many stories on the internet of “tea-ceremony scams” where you end up paying for things you had not signed up for. We did promise to text the students about hanging out the next day (after all, there was the small chance they were genuine) but we sort of forgot to follow-through there.

Our hotel: the Soluxe Courtyard, outside and lobby.

Vanessa, in her "snow queen" outfit, often gets asked to pose for photos with people's kids.

People keep mistaking us both for Russians. I suppose we have a bit of that look.

Harbin Ice and Snow Festival

2010-02-17T08:17:00.004-07:00

We've been set loose into the wilds of China. Lu is staying in Mudanjiang to spend more time with her family before heading back to Shanghai to start working for eBay/Paypal. We will no longer have her around to hold our hands, which is essentially what she has been doing up until this point. Now we'll be totally on our own. Except, as it turns out, not quite yet.

Our next destination was Harbin, which Ness and I had prepared to handle. We researched hotels, read up on the taxi situation (apparently they like to bamboozle people, up in Harbin), traced routes to the airport, etc. Then Lu's dad caught wind of the situation and insisted we have help. I believe he thinks we will end up destitute on the streets, shivering in the cold, perhaps considering a life of prostitution if left to ourselves (I'm sure news of my “mugging” didn't help this perception.). He called a friend of his living in Harbin and made arrangements.

We took a 4-hour bus north through the frosty white countryside and were dropped off at a street in downtown Harbin, where it is -14 C during the day and -23 C at night. We had been sweating in our multitude of layers on the bus but were instantly missing it as soon as we stepped into Dr. Cold's Wonderland of Pain. This is a kind of cold that backhands you repeatedly in the face, insults your mother, and then issues several hard kicks to the groin. Not pleasant.

Lu's dad had instructed us to stay where we were until “Uncle Joe (Zhou)” came to get us. I had Ness teach me how to say “Are you Uncle Joe?” in Chinese, but the only people who approached us for the first little while were taxi drivers, none of whom were named Joe.

While we waited, I ran across the street to the public toilets. Upon entering, a lady at a booth screamed something at me, which clearly meant she wanted money. Realizing I forgot how to say “how much?” I flashed my fingers in a counting motion, and she favored me with a dead glare and said "dur." Dur – in much the same sound and intonation as someone with, shall we say, limited mental capacity. I have no idea what "dur" means – it is not one of the numbers 1 through 10 I had so carefully memorized. Pretending to understood, I just handled her my smallest bill, 1 yuan, and she handed me change. First solo Chinese transaction a success!

I returned to Ness and learned she had been able to text Uncle Joe and got a response that he would be there in 5 minutes. Go Ness! True to his word, Joe pulled up with his wife and 7-year-old daughter. She came bursting out of the car and said “Hello! Nice to meet you!” in heavily accented but adorable English. And then we were off. Ness was able to make small talk in the car with Uncle Joe and his wife. I mostly smiled and pretended to know what was going on. I have had to do this a lot lately.

What followed was a day of wonder, awe, and awkwardness. Wonder and awe for everything we saw. Awkward because a family of total strangers dropped everything for a day and became our guide and chauffeurs. They took us to a place to eat, bought us food (refusing to let us pay them), then to an inexpensive hotel to check in, then through the substantial traffic to the world famous Harbin Ice and Snow Festival. The festival is divided in two, on one side of Sun Island is Snow World with hundreds of amazing snow sculptures, and the other side is the ice festival with gigantic lit structures built with blocks of ice.

Getting into the exhibits was insanity. The entrances were packed with people, more packed than even our train travels at the height of the Spring Festival. Once through the ticket lines and entrances, however, the crowds spread out a bit. I won't go into detail describing everything we saw, I'll let the pictures do it. Suffice it to say, it was pure eye candy. Delicious eye candy.

Uncle Joe was waiting to take us back to our hotel as we left. He even met us the next morning and took us to the airport, refusing the money we tried to pay him. I just wish we could have been more interesting for him. Ness's limited (and my nonexistent) grasp of the language kept the conversation to a minimum. Yet Joe seemed happy to take us around, all the same. Lu says it's a cultural thing – that people in China bend over backwards for their friends (in this case, friends of friends). It certainly is an admirable thing, even if it did make our time together a bit awkward. As he left us at the security line at the airport, we thanked Uncle Joe profusely.

And now we really are functioning on our own. I know because I'm writing this from the future. Stay tuned.

Ness got to hold an arctic fox. She immediately wanted to own one.

Mudanjiang: A Day in Photos

2010-02-14T19:41:00.005-07:00

We spent the first day of the lunar new year out in the bustle of Mudanjiang, enjoying street foods, being attacked by pigeons, and participating in the ice festivities at the city park. I'm going to let these photos assist me in telling the story:

Street vendors were out in dozens, despite the holiday. We tried candied fruit kebabs, seasoned meat kebabs, baked yams, and this lovely squid-on-a-stick (note: I could not finish squid-on-a-stick due to the grodiness of the seasoning). One food we avoided: "stinky tofu." It smells like rotting garbage but is said to taste delicious. I am going with my nose on this one.

A man was selling pigeon feed for 3 yuan. The pigeons gathered in great anticipation of our purchase. They were particularly fond of Vanessa....

But Lu and I had our fair share of pigeon love...

Then the city park, which had ice sculptures and cotton candy.

The letters read: "Mudanjiang Ice Castle"

Down below the park, the Mudan river was frozen a meter thick. 10 yuan to scoot around the river on chair-sleds. 15 yuan for the ice slides...

We didn't get any photos of the hours we spent sliding down the ice slides onto the river. But I did get some video. I've been holding off posting any video of this trip until a later date when I can compile it all together. But I thought I'd share this little clip I took while going down the slide.

Year of the Tiger

2010-02-13T21:45:00.000-07:00

Of one thing I am certain: there are no evil spirits left in all of Mudanjiang. Really, they've all been scared away. In this apartment complex alone, fire crackers go off every 3.5 seconds. Long, booming strings of them, all day and all night. Lu says it's a tradition to ward off evil spirits. I say ain't no way there's a spirit left to hear it. The spirits of my ear drums fled long ago.

It's the Year of the Tiger and we've all been celebrating. Red lanterns and lights are hanging from the balcony. Paper banners with the characters for health and prosperity surround the door. And food, lots of food. Rice from the paddies of the famous lake nearby, fiery shrimp, mantis shrimp, local sausages, local black fungus, all manner of vegetable dishes both spicy and sweet, fish garnished with its own unborn babies...the list goes on. We ate and ate and toasted away the waning Year of the Ox.

Festival eve was a lazy day, spent watching the Olympics opening ceremony and other television (Chinese shows be craaazy), eating candy and fruit, and much surfing of the internet. Our hosts refused to let us help with the cooking or serving. I couldn't even put a cup back into the kitchen without Lu's dad intercepting me. My insistence that I REALLY like to help fell on deaf ears, so there wasn't much else to do.

As soon as it got dark, the constant din of firecrackers was joined by the boom of full-on fireworks lighting up the night sky, all set off by neighbors. I'm not sure if there's an official show out in the city, but there doesn't seem to be a need for one. The people make shows of their own, launching things that would never be legal in the states.

As midnight approached, we bundled up and went into the courtyard to set off some fireworks of our own. We did strings of firecrackers, of course. But then also long tubes that sent blooming flowers of light high over the 8-story complex. Lu's dad used his cigarette to light the fuses, and handed it to Ness and I to light some ourselves. The out-and-out danger of it put any 4th of July celebration I've participated in to shame.

At midnight we had dumplings, another festival eve tradition, this one because the dumplings are shaped like ancient Chinese coins and thus bring luck and prosperity. Although the sheer volume of celebration would doubtless be crazier in Shanghai, I was so glad to be in Mudanjiang with Lu's wonderful family. How often does a white guy from the west get to experience a traditional New Year celebration in a Chinese home? It is pretty terrific.

Feast!

Midnight Dumplings

Grandma eats a dumpling that Ness wrapped (she tried!)

Lu took this photo. No one knows what Ness is doing.

Mudanjiang

2010-02-12T20:14:00.006-07:00

Lu's parents and cousin met us at the station as our train shuddered to a stop. We could see them from the window, smiling big and waving at us. There were quick greetings and we were swept into a taxi. Mudanjjiang is big! I was expecting something much smaller, but downtown looks like it was cut right out of Shanghai. We were dropped at a tall apartment complex somewhere in a maze of buildings and walked up 7 flights of stairs (Lu's dad and cousin insisting on carrying our luggage.) From the outside, the complex looks pretty run down so I was not expecting much as we opened the front door.

The apartment is amazing. Gleaming dark wood floors, stylish doors and cabinets, beautiful paint and color scheme, circular and geometric patterns in the walls and ceiling, gigantic television. It is all very modern. Ness and I are staying in Lu's old room, which is plenty roomy with wireless internet (yes!). Lu's family has been so good to us. As soon as we were settled, we went off to a fancy-pants restaurant – the kind that has doormen and private dining halls. Then followed a couple hours of pure deliciousness. The round dining table contained an inner carousel of vegetables and meats to be placed in the boiling hot pot near our plates. Naturally we encouraged to constantly eat, and eat we did. Lu's dad was fond of making toasts and Lu translated where she could. He welcomed us to China, said that no matter the political relations between our countries we are friends. He also made sure to note that although it is very cold in northern China, the hearts of the people are much warmer than in Shanghai. Lu's mother, cousin, and aunt were all smiles.

After the meal, we walked in the cold streets for a few blocks to recover from all the food. The traffic in Mudanjiang is just as crazy as in Shanghai. Taxis almost ran me down more than once. They don't stop or even seem to notice pedestrians. Traffic rules are suggestions rather than law, or perhaps more accurately, things to blatantly ignore. It reminds me of Dakar in that sense.

As we walked, we saw groups of people out in the streets burning piles of paper. Lu said it symbolized burning money for the ancestors, a tradition to be done in the days leading to the Spring Festival. The glow of fires was spread out in clusters down the city blocks, sending ashes out into the chilly winds. This is a cold that penetrates layers like a knife through soft butter. I had on several undershirts, sweaters, and a thick coat but I could still feel it.

At the apartment we gave Lu's mom an Estee Lauder skin care set I had picked out in the states (Lu had said she loves that brand and it's hard to get in China) and her dad a copy of our dad's CD. They seemed very pleased. I'm not really able to communicate with anyone besides Lu, and I admit it's a little awkward, but I feel very welcomed all the same.

Train to Mudanjiang

2010-02-12T07:03:00.005-07:00

PART I.

I'm on a train headed to the frozen northern edge of China. Everything outside is shades of white and gray. White farm fields, crusted with frost. Powdered low white hills glimpsed through gray cement buildings. Frozen ponds and streams like frosted window glass. Gray skies.

Along the rail line, there are towns and cities with short stretches of bare country. Most towns are made up of dilapidated buildings, covered in grime and run down to the point of looking uninhabitable. Yet signs of life are evident in the curling brown smoke from the rooftops or the occasional bundled figure outside pulling a cart. It's a stark reminder that China is not just the shiny opulence of Nanjing road or the futuristic skyline along the river in Shanghai. It's still very much a developing nation, where the rapid growth and modernization of the larger cities haven't yet reached the rest of the country.

The train is packed, and Ness and I are packed into it. Getting to the bathroom is like navigating an obstacle course. It seems they sell “standing only” tickets once the seats are filled, and people are desperate enough to get home that they don't mind standing for hours. Chinese New Year is on the 14th, and for many it is a yearly pilgrimage from the cities to hometowns, spouses, and families only ever seen during the festival. Transportation costs are tripled this time of year, which is the main reason we've decided to go by train, despite the 14-hour length. Lu is currently flying to Shenyang to meet us for the second stretch of our trip, where we change trains for an additional 13 hours into Mudanjiang.

Yesterday I spent the morning researching how to wire money, video chatting with my dad to get the number for my other credit card (left at home), and generally figuring out how to improvise financially when cut off from funds. Luckily I didn't have all my cash on me when disaster struck, so I will get by for now. Oh blessed internet, how did we do anything before you came along?

In the cold afternoon (the temperature dropped 30 degrees from the day before) we visited Lu's new apartment to drop off some stuff and then hit the Bund, the old colonial and current financial center of Shanghai. The architecture of the Bund is pure European, and as interesting as it was, it didn't feel as much a new experience as everything else thus far. Construction and haze blocked the view of the river along our route, so we spent more time on Nanjing road, this time at night when all the lights were on.

A trip to Lotus (a Walmart-like super store) proved interesting. So many strange and new foods. I spent much of the time staring at packaging trying to figure out what was actually contained inside. (Is that animal on the front a cow or a pig or maybe a dog?) All manner of fruits I've never seen, fresh, dried, and candied. Some foods looked delicious, some nauseating (I never again want to see a chicken carcass look like that!). Lays chips come in a dozen flavors unknown in the states (I recommend the kiwi and blueberry). I could have spent a few more hours there, but time was short.

We got home by what I can only describe as bicycle rickshaw. For 6 yuan (about a dollar) the bicyclists pulled us in covered seats several long city blocks to the apartment. I think the bikes were a hybrid-electric. Sometimes the driver had to pedal, sometimes he didn't. Chalk this one up as a "neat!" on my list of experiences so far in this country.

PART II.

The sleeper train was dark and full of slumbering bodies as we stumbled through it sometime after 1 a.m., following a layover in Shenyang were we met up again with Lu. She managed to get us tickets the week before (no easy task) but we were each in separate alcoves, and me with 5 strangers. The beds were stacked 3 to a wall, 6 to an alcove, slightly padded on metal jutting from the wall. It took a while to get comfortable, but it was blessedly warm and out of the freezing wind. I woke a few times to a conductor asking for a ticket, or from one of my bunk mates getting up to smoke, or the general commotion about the train. Each time I woke it took a while to register where I was. I would look about with half-closed eyes and see strange faces (some of them staring at me, as if watching me sleep) and then slowly the realization would come that I was in a train traveling through a snowy landscape in northern China and not tucked into my bed in Cali or Utah.

Cut off from Lu and Ness, if only by a short distance, I felt exposed. If someone were to ask a question, or demand something of me I'd have no idea what to say. I'd have to just smile dumbly and hope they went away. Ness has seriously impressed me with the amount of Chinese she has learned. She's able to hold a conversation if someone talks slowly, and knows enough to get by without help. So glad I'm not here alone!

I have picked up a few words and phrases, although my retention of them is slipping. One word I know I won't forget is baozi – the steamed meat-filled buns I so love. I've come to refer to 1 yuan coins as baozi qian (bun money) because one bun costs one yuan. Mmm...baozi.

Gardens, Food, and Thievery

2010-02-09T18:28:00.004-07:00

And on the second day, I was mugged.

Seriously. It's not like I haven't been out of the country before. I should know how to protect myself better. And yet, here we are. My wallet is gone, my credit and debit cards are gone, my driver's license is gone, along with about 300 yuan (roughly $45). On the second day. Gah!

It must have happened on the metro, during rush hour when we were packed in like sardines. I protectively clutched my bag with one hand, and kept my other hand over my left front pocket, which contained my wallet. But I got lost in conversation at one point and must have removed my hand, leaving the pocket exposed. That's all it took. I had thought I'd feel someone reaching near my inner thigh, but no. The thief was too good, the bastard.

I used Lu's Skype account to call the U.S. and have the cards canceled. Thank you, the Internet. Still, getting access to more cash is going to be a problem now. I'll find a way, but dammit if its not an obnoxious setback.

This made for a crappy end to an otherwise great afternoon. It was unseasonably warm – in the 60s, where its usually chilly 40s. Ness, Ramsey, Lu and I took a bus, metro, and taxi somewhere out into the city. At this point I'm blindly following wherever Lu and Ness lead, taking in the boundless sprawl of Shanghai as we go. There seems to be no beginning or end to it -- concrete, glass, and asphalt stretching on into eternity. We got a slushee (green apple yogurt flavored, mm!) on the famous Nanjing road (one of the worlds busiest shopping streets – tall buildings, lights, and glitz) and then poked around the bazaar outside Yu Gardens, where all the buildings are traditional Chinese architecture. From the roof of a tea house, we could see the modern city skyline in the distance, shrouded by haze and pollution but still impressive. The Yu Gardens itself is a maze of old temples, stone, trees, and coy-filled pools. Beautiful.

It started drizzling in the gardens so we left the area, strolling through alleys and back roads filled with vegetable and fruit markets. I bought a bag of kumquats and sampled a few things from food vendors – a steamed bun with meat inside (delicious and so cheap) and some kind of tortilla thing with white carrot and egg. We stopped at a restaurant for more food: Shanghai dumplings, a dish of tofu and peppers, and spicy pork. So far nothing I have eaten I haven't liked (I'm neutral on Ness's beloved squid jerky). It's like a food-cation, and I feel like I could just wander the streets eating cheap tasty food until I burst.

There has been no bursting yet. Tomorrow there will be some more Shanghai visiting but also a lot of planning, and then a a scramble to the train yard at 5 a.m. for a 2-day ride to sub-Siberia and Lu's hometown.

I is in China

2010-02-08T19:46:00.005-07:00

Tuesday, Feb 9th, 8:30 a.m.

I'm sitting on my sister's couch in a small apartment somewhere tucked into the urban jungle of eastern Shanghai. Through the window, concrete apartment high rises frame a narrow alley where bicyclists trickle by every few seconds.

Vanessa, Ramsey, and Lu (Ness's friend staying here) are all still asleep. It was well into the wee hours of the morning when I finally got to bed, or in this case, to couch, after having not slept in 30 hours. Now I'm wide awake, likely because my body still thinks it's in another time zone. Well I got news for you, body, you're in China. We'll see who's near collapse in a few hours when it's broad daylight and you think it's night. Who'll be laughing then?

The plane ride over was pleasant, if a bit maddening at times. Being cramped in a metal coffin zooming through the sky for 16 hours will do that to you. I sat next to a gregarious, if somewhat stinky, postal worker on his way to Thailand for the "adventure of a lifetime." He was very chatty and eager to discuss his upcoming trip. His fat rolls were also eager to spill over into my seat. Boo.

Korea Air has pretty great service, I have to note. In total, 3 great meals, lots of snacks, juice, hot towels, etc. The in-flight entertainment consisted of screens on each seat with a kazillion movies to choose from, most just barely out of theaters. I watched five of them – anything to shut the fat man up from listing his itinerary for the 15th time. No I kid, fat man, have fun in Thailand.

The Korean layover went smoothly, although the gate changed inexplicably twice. Arriving in Shanghai, getting my bags, and going through customs also went off without a hitch. Then I was stranded for about 2 hours as my sister and I waited for each other in different terminals.

It's an odd feeling, having no phone, knowing no Mandarin beyond a few phrases, and having no idea what to do next in a very alien place. I walked around with my bags, near panic, sleep deprived, and surely made a pathetic sight. I couldn't work the stupid pay phones to call Vanessa's cell. No matter what button I pushed some electronic-voiced lady came on and spouted something in Chinese. (Most likely translation: "Haha, no phone for you sucka.")

I also learned that when someone says they speak English, it really means they THINK they speak English. The info desk lady somehow interpreted my saying, "How do I use the phone to call my sister?" into "I'm trying to get to Australia."

Suffice it to say, when Ness and I saw each other it was a huge relief. She was pretty miserable, having waited in the wrong place for nearly 3 hours (the other terminal listed my flight arriving too – so you can't blame her). We took a long bus ride, followed by a taxi (in which Vanessa forced the taxi guy not to rip us off with her impressive Mandarin), and finally got to her apartment. My first impressions of Shanghai are pretty much nonexistant – I don't remember seeing much out the bus window except dark haze and street lamps and cars.

But now Ness is waking and cooking me breakfast (woo!) and we'll soon be replacing my non-impressions with first impressions. I'll try to keep this blog updated when I can get this VPN to work. China no likey blogger.

(photo: found in my sister's bathroom.Awesome)

Pacific Northwest - Day 7-8

2009-06-11T09:48:00.011-06:00

I took the long way home. North, first, to Yelm (Washington), and then east along mountain roads. Yelm is as tiny of a town as you'll find. It also is the current residence of one Terina Jex Holmes, a friend and sister missionary with me back in good ol' Bordeaux. The problem with visiting Terina is she reminds me how bad my early Alzheimer's has become. For example, she reminders everything whereas I remember nothing.

We looked through her mission scrapbook, at photos of missionaries and members, investigators, villages, cathedrals, rivers, towns. It was a nice stroll down memory lane and the things I had forgotten she was quick to remind me of. Terina is as entertaining as ever, happy to point out the elders who were particularly unpleasant, her desire to strangle them seemingly as fresh as it had been 8+ years ago. Suffice to say, I laughed a lot.

I said goodbye to Terina and her two cute children and began the long, long, long drive back to Utah. At least there were forest and lakes and viewpoints for the first half. I grabbed a hotel at the border of Washington and Oregon and then drove the longer, uglier way through east Oregon and Idaho. I stopped at Shoshone Falls again and hiked along the canyon, eating fresh cherries, before the final stretch. Then a cop pulled me over for going 66 in a 55 zone. I had hoped to get through the trip without a ticket...and I did. Granted, I told him I was speeding because I had to use the restroom, which wasn't totally true. But dammit, it worked. He said, "this one's on me," and off I went.

It's good to be home. I know it'll only be a matter of days before I go stir-crazy again (the curse of unemployment) but for now I have scratched that itch. Despite all the beauty I saw in the PNW, when the Wasatch mountains came into view on the I-84, I felt strangely grateful. These are my mountains. I've hiked them, boated their lakes, and I see them filling the skyline every morning out my window. I gotta say, they're great.

Trip Stats:
• driving total - 2,200 miles (40+ hours)
• hiking total - at least 20 miles
• hostels endured - 3
• hostels that were haunted - 1
• waterfalls viewed - so many
• podcasts listened to - 30+
• hitchhikers - 1 picked up, 1 passed on account of large holes in his sweatpants

Pacific Northwest - Day 6

2009-06-07T23:31:00.004-06:00

I've decided to alter my plans. The Hoh Rainforest in Olympic National Park, the place I thought would be my next destination is 5 hours from Seaside, making the inevitable trip home even longer. I don't think I can face that much driving. My little car does not have cruise control and my right foot is angry with me. Sorry rainforest.

So Instead, I drove around the northern tip of Oregon, crossed the river back into Washington, and headed east towards Mount Saint Helens.

Ape Cave is a lava tube formed long ago by Helens' eruptions. I've been in a lot of caves (spent a night in one in college) and have walked through a lava tube in Hawaii so Ape Cave wasn't a totally new experience. But it was still pretty cool. Wish I had brought a better flashlight instead of the tiny, half dead one I found in my glove box. The weak light made things a bit slow going, but every once in a while someone would walk by with a lantern and I'd leech off their light for a bit. Much of the time I didn't hear or see anything but the dripping of water from the ceiling and the scraping of my shoes on the rock. I kept thinking of the movie, “The Descent,” and the cave creatures. With a little bit of stage makeup, some false teeth, and a practiced lurch, someone could have a lot of fun down there.

And here's a photo of the entrance. And that's all for now.

Pacific Northwest - Day 5

2009-06-06T23:01:00.003-06:00

I picked up a hitchhiker on the highway south of Seaside. "Did you pass me yesterday?," he asked, as he settled into the passenger seat. "I remember this little blue car." He was right, I had passed him, but was on my way to the hostel and couldn't stop. This time I did.

We exchanged names, but I forgot his a minute after he told me (as I am wont to do). He looked to be in his late thirties, unshaven, and not exactly smelling of flowers. As we drove down the highway he noticed my bags and clothes strewn about the back seat. "What's your journey?" he asked. I told him and he told me he was headed to Northern California to try and study Botany. For a while we talked about plants. Then about the towns we passed between stretches of wet, green forest and the ocean.

"How long does it usually take?" I asked him. "Before a car will pick you up, I mean."
"Sometimes right away. Sometimes as much as a day or two." He said.

I dropped him off at Pacific City, an hour or so later. As he got out into the drizzling rain, I handed him a twenty. "I could use this," he said. "God bless you."

---
It kept raining. I sat in a parking lot at Cape Kiwanda hoping it would let up. The wind was strong and waves were crashing against the shore. A large sand dune led to the top of the cape. My friend Jessi had told me I needed to hike to the top, that the view was straight out of a postcard. It kept raining. Sorry, Jessi.

I headed north again, taking the route off the highway, nearest the shore. There was a turn off near another cape with some hiking trails. I put on my jacket, pulled up my hood, and started the 5 mile hike in spite of the rain. As soon as I entered the forest along the cape, I was blanketed in fog. The tall, mossy trees kept the rain mostly in check, and I could hear the surf breaking against the cliff, but couldn't see it. About a mile in, the trail reached the rim of the cliff, and the fog suddenly let up and I sucked in my breath. The ocean was a jewel, frothing along the cove a couple hundred feet below. I kept my eyes on it, tramping through mud and puddles before the trees closed up like a velvet green curtain with the occasional torn patch offering peeks. The trail finally ended at the edge of the cape, dropping off sharply to the water, seagulls circling far below. The wind was howling. I edged my way under the safety barrier, out onto the end of the rocks. It felt a little like falling, with the wind full force against my face and arms. I gripped the rock and clenched my teeth. I was scared sick. That's why I did it.
----

Not only is Tillamook awesome because of the cheese, the city isn't so bad either. I can't imagine what it'd be like to live there, or any of the surrounding towns. I guess all the amazing forest and coastline would become mundane after a while, but it certainty wasn't to me. I took the Tillamook Cheese factory tour and enjoyed a bunch of free samples. Extra Sharp Chedder = yes.

Next stop was Canon Beach, best known for Haystack Rock – a giant monolith just off the shore with tide pools leading up to it. I saw a lot of rocks like this on my drive, but one so up close, beautiful and towering... double yes.

I'm staying at the Seaside hostel again for tonight. I strolled the boardwalk at sunset which was bustling with people. There were swing sets right on the beach. Swing sets on the beach! Triple yes.

And I'm beat. Goodnight blog.

Pacific Northwest - Day 4

2009-06-05T23:57:00.003-06:00

It was in the downpour and the drizzle that I did my best to navigate the streets of Portland. I hear the public transportation system is great there, and I suppose it would have to be with all the one-way streets and severely limited parking. Sick of the car, I spent some time walking downtown and along the waterfront, getting rather soggy, but in good spirits. Highlight of my time was browsing Powell's Books, which fills a whole city block. The place is HUGE and the selection is amazing. I picked up an old edition of a Ray Bradbury short story collection for a few bucks.

I decided not to spend the full day in the city. I figure I'll go back another time and explore it with company. Instead, I headed to Seaside, a small coastal town. Wonderful place. The hostel is set up like a motel, but with multiple bunks per room. It was still cold and rainy, but the beach was great, filled with broken sand dollars and crab shells. Everywhere I stepped, crab shells. They crunch when you step on them in an pleasing, addictive way, much like popping bubble wrap. I couldn't stop crunching them.

I have more I could write, but it's getting late and my roommates are old men who doubtless don't appreciate the clacking of the keys. Tomorrow will be a day of sea towns and beaches. And hopefully cheese.

Pacific Northwest - Day 3

2009-06-05T09:58:00.012-06:00

All morning, all afternoon, waterfalls. The Historic Columbia River Highway has got more waterfalls than it knows what to do with. Most can be seen right off the highway, but a few require a bit of a hike. Multnomah Falls takes the cake. It's the most famous and also the most touristy (with a restaurant and gift shop) but for good reason. It's impressive enough in a photograph, but staring at it close up with the bright green foliage, and the bridge is all kinds of wonderful. I did the steep hike to the top, which left me struggling for breath, but the view looking down would have caused that anyway.

By the time I was done inspecting every fall I could locate, my body was all shaky with fatigue. I hadn't slept much the night before, what with the bikers waking up earlier than should be legal and waking me up with them. So I decided to take a break from hostels and grabbed a hotel room near Portland. Then it started to rain, and the wind picked up and soon it was full-on storming. Can't say I was upset to be snug in my room, watching it all drip down the windows.

I caught up with the job search, which has been become a steady routine of applying and having my efforts sucked into the black hole which is the internet. Did get this email, however, from a summer job I applied for in Switzerland:
-----
We have received an overwhelming amount of applications and unfortunately the position was filled today. Your portfolio is great, and to be honest the work we have to offer on this project is too junior (and quite dry) for someone with your talent. As we do like your style very much - we are keeping your portfolio on record for future projects. Hopefully we will have the opportunity to work together in the future.
-----
That was very nice of them -- BUT, I don't think I would have cared if the work was dry. They were paying free flight, free housing and a stipend for a summer in Switzerland. At least they got back to me, which is more than I can say for everyone else, even after a great interview (ahem, ABC4, ahem).

So the search continues. But for now, Portland awaits.

Pacific Northwest - Day 2

2009-06-03T22:44:00.008-06:00

This place is strange. Like, horror movie strange. I'm in an old abandoned school. Well, I suppose not abandoned. More like repurposed. Now it's a hostel. A creepy, creepy hostel. The one in Boise was homey and quaint. This place is not quaint by any stretch of the imagination. Maybe it has to do with the location – Bingen, Washington, just over the Columbia river, a toll bridge separating it from the Oregon border. Bingen is a village of hics. I don't mean to be judgmental, but let's be honest: we're in hicsville. Stained wife-beaters, missing teeth, mullets, the works. There isn't much to the town but gas stations and dusty shops selling brick-a-brack. And the hostel.

The hostel. Old lockers line the dark hallways, interspersed by creeky doors. I'm convinced that it is only a matter of time before I see long dead school children roaming the halls, singing playground songs in a minor key. When I see them, and I most certainly will, I must convince them not to take their vengeance out on me. I am but a weary traveler, and am in no way responsible for whatever gruesome death befell them. "Listen kids," I will say. "I know your tortured spirits want peace. But.. quick! Look over there!" And then I will run.

The other guests in the men's dorm are part of some kind of bicycle thing. They keep asking me if I'm here for the race. No I am not, I tell them. Unless it involves running from ghosts. The dorm room is divided into separate alcoves with bunk beds. The light doesn't work. The bathroom, down the hall, looks ready to collapse. "You're going to have to let the water run for about five minutes before it gets hot," the guy at the office says. He is bearded and friendly. I don't think he owns a chainsaw.

It's late now and I'm sitting in the lounge, which has an outside entrance, around the corner from the dorms. There are tables set up like a diner, some kind of bar surrounding a couple refrigerators, and an antique kitchen. Sure, it isn't the relaxing end to a long day of driving like I had hoped, but it will do. Today I drove. I drove and drove and drove, stretched my legs, and drove some more. Eastern Oregon is like the worst parts of Idaho and Utah--just miles and miles of scrubland. But things get better as soon as I-84 hits the southern edge of the Columbia river. Then it's all water, and trees, and canyon walls that make for a great show out the windows. I stopped by a museum with all kinds of interesting (and not so interesting) information on the river. Apparently a lot of Indians got screwed over when they built the dams. Surprise!

Below are a couple scenic shots. Tomorrow I hit the waterfalls. My camera will be busier.

Pacific Northwest - Day 1

2009-06-02T23:08:00.013-06:00

I'm sitting in a living room in a hostel just west of Boise. I just spent the last 40 minutes talking to Judy, the only other guest at the hostel tonight, and didn't notice the sun disappear behind the highway. It's quiet except for the noise of the fan and the chirping of birds which haven't quite given over to the chirping of crickets. Judy is in the kitchen, books strewn across the table, a highlighter in her fist. She's from Twin Falls, spending two weeks in Boise for a crash course in Real Estate. "People don't think this is the best time to go into housing," she tells me. "But it's what I want to do."

I stopped in Twin Falls, Judy's future house-selling territory, in the afternoon to stretch my legs and grab a bite to eat. I can't say I know anything about the town, or the area, but I assumed there had to be waterfalls nearby. (Maybe two? That bear a striking resemblance to each other?) I was more than pleasantly surprised when, after following a few brown signs, I caught a glimpse of Shoshone falls. “Niagara of the West” a sign near the lookout proclaimed. And it was impressive, if not quite on a Niagara caliber. I spent an hour staring at the rushing water, walking a few trails along the canyon, and taking a photo for an Indian couple and a sweet grandmother in a colorful robe.

If you're going to jump in your car and hit the road, these unexpected gems along the way are really what make the trip. This is my first time doing it solo, with no particular destination or end point in mind, and I have to say I don't hate it. There's something great about not having anyone to please or a schedule to fill. The only thing I really need to worry about is the never ending job search. And I have nights for that. Thank you, wifi.

Tomorrow I hit the Columbia River Gorge. More updates forthcoming.

Photos (top to bottom):
1. a bridge somewhere east of Twin Falls. Almost ran off the road when I noticed how high up I was. Had to pull over and photograph.
2-4. Shoshone Falls.
5. Hostel Boise, cozy and cheap. Can't go wrong.

Blog on Hiatus of Indeterminate Length

2007-09-05T10:13:00.000-06:00

True, this blog is long dead. But, if by some chance you're reading this and wonder where in cyberspace I've disappeared to, you can find me on Facebook. That's pretty much where I hang out these days.

Peace!

Gone Fishing

2006-11-02T14:03:00.001-07:00

Presenting MunnsCo™ brand Dolphin. It's delicious on a cracker, in a mayonnaise sandwich, or just straight out of the can.

Blogiversary

2006-06-28T16:35:00.000-06:00

It's my two-year blogiversary today. To celebrate I'm going to download 730 viruses off the internet, one for each day I've been a blogger. Then I'm going to attach those viruses to spam-mail and send them to 730 of my closest friends. If they get mad, I'll be all like: "Chill, man, it's my blogiversary" and then we'll hug or something.

Aloha

2006-06-26T19:59:00.000-06:00

I'm back from Hawaii and it was the most horrible week of my life.

Also, I'm a liar.

Hawaii was incredible. Expect a few posts on the subject, which will come when photos from the various parties in attendance have been developed and/or collected.

In the meantime, I would like to report a death. My camera, which has served me faithfully for 14 months or so (still in the prime of its life!) was brutally murdered by some rogue splashes of sea water. I loved my camera and, as to be expected, am deeply saddened by this event. Which is why I'm currently in talks with my lawyers about the possibility of filing a wrongful death suit against the ocean. I think I'll be able to at least get something -- considering the ocean covers two thirds of the earth and all; an entity that vast and prominent has got to be loaded.

I'll let you know how it turns out.

California

2006-06-14T00:30:00.000-06:00

This isn't supposed to be a vacation blog. But in the interest of avoiding posts about angry jihadists, office chatter, or nonexistent relationships, for the moment, that's what it is. If I had written an extensive account of my recent trip to California, the following would be excerpts:

---
Spent a couple days being reminded why people pay insanely high prices to live in San Diego. The man on the corner energetically flipping the sign for the tiny condos behind him (starting at 400 grand), didn't leave me completely agape this time. The visit was perfect: the weather, the beach, the cavorting seals. With most my college friends married and popping out babies, it was nice to spend the time with Mark and Cassie, the final holdouts. Of course they're both ticking time bombs.

----
At my aunt's house near Sacramento, my sister and I walked with my maternal grandmother through the large yard, stopping to hear grandma’s opinion on every twig and rock. Her brain tumor, although dormant, seems to not only have wiped her short-term memory, but also left her persistently curious about yard waste. We spent several minutes perched over a pile of stones while she monologued about their ideal shape and size, suggesting that my uncle should really give up a few for her garden. She's forgotten she doesn't garden anymore.

My grandfather, in his 90s, has had better luck with his health. He is lucid, soft spoken, and content, spending the days napping, reading, and surfing the web. While we were chatting, my grandmother crept up behind him and begin scraping his bald head with some kind of dried plant she must have found in the yard.

"Want to see what I pricked you with?" she asked, holding up her find for him to examine. He stared dully at her hand then turned back to me.

"I'm enjoying my retirement," he said.

----
The meat of the trip was with my other grandparents at their cabin on Lake McClure. While one set has slowed their lives down, my paternal grandparents don't yet seem to realize they're in their eighties. This was most comically illustrated when my grandfather tried to leap the railings of the cabin deck (he made it over, barely), or when, halfway up a ladder, I had to insist that he let me be the one to climb into the water tank to clean out the sand. When I’m in my eighties, I plan on catatonically staring at Jeopardy and doing lots of drooling. Definitely none of this leaping decks and climbing ladders business.

---
I can't describe how good it was to be with them: parents, grandparents, sister, brother-in-law, nieces. We spent a lot of time sitting out on the deck overlooking the lake, talking, or "philosophizing," as my grandmother puts it. For a few days it felt as if time had slowed down; as if this lone cabin on an empty hill had detached itself from the world across the lake.

We weren't completely alone, though. There were the wild burros. Invisible, out in the oak trees, they made the most ungodly noises at night. In my mind, they were molty, haggard beasts; or at the very least had a description that measured up to the horrible sounds they made. But when we spotted them on a hill, as my brother-in-law and I were paddling by in a makeshift raft, I found them to be deceptively normal. Handsome, even. Still, if they were talking donkeys, and we had somehow found ourselves in casual conversation, I would tactfully slip in a suggestion for throat surgery.

---
The elaborate plan to record my grandparents’ commentary on some old home movies didn’t go over so well. Technical difficulties. But watching them as newlyweds living in Hawaii, right across from Pearl Harbor, was just good. Also, it seems my father laughed a lot as a baby. He still laughs a lot.

It made me happy.

Thursday I’m leaving for the land of my dad’s birth. A week in Hawaii. I know I said this isn’t supposed to be a vacation blog but it is what it is.

Bryce Canyon

2006-05-23T15:32:00.000-06:00

Some photos from a recent trip to Bryce canyon with my French friend, Pierre. Let me tell you: Bryce is amazing. Pierre compared the towering stone "hoodoos" of the Canyon to the "ancient ruins of some impossible cathedral." I thought they looked like the bloody stalagmites of a colossal, upside-down cave. In any case, they just looked otherworldly, as if nothing on Earth could cook up such eerie formations. Of course the recipe is simple: lots of rushing water, wind, maybe some ice--and millions of years. Erosion, you artistic genius, you.

But more on that later. I'm off to California for a week. Bye now.

This is what happened at work today.

2006-04-29T01:09:00.000-06:00

Crapples

2006-04-26T13:34:00.000-06:00

Perusing the produce section of my local grocery store last week, I came upon the most curious fruit. “Grapple,” the label read. “Looks like an apple, tastes like a grape!”

My first thought was: “Those crazy scientists! What will they think of next?” It was a natural assumption: if an apple claims to taste like a grape, then there must be some kind of genetic interference, right?

The grapples came in a 4-pack, smelled very strongly of grape flavor, and were ridiculously expensive. I bought them, of course. Who am I to turn down a genetic abomination?

Naturally, it was all lies. For one thing, they don’t taste like grapes. They taste like apples! Sure, they smell like grape jolly ranchers, but all grape flavor is lost once you bite past the skin. My next thought was: “Scientists, you are failures! Go back to scientist school!”

Then I read the packaging.
“Ingredients: Fuji apples, Artificial Grape Flavor.”

So there was no genetic manipulation after all. Just plain apples soaked in grape flavor. I quickly flashed through an emotional spectrum, starting with denial, then incredulity, depression, and finally, violent rage.

My mother always taught me that you can solve any problem by writing an angry letter. So I went on the official Grapple website to give them a piece of my mind. But, on the way, I was distracted by a Grapple message board. Yes, there’s a message board for Grapple.

Here are some highlights:

“Oh my gosh!!!! these are grate! I love them, and most people think that I’m macking up some kind of fruit. But i sugesst that every one should try them!!!!!!”

“grapples taste like wet tar”

“I haven’t been able to walk for 15 years now. Just two bites of this grapple made me spring to my feet in ecstasy! I no longer need to eat anything else ever again!”

By the time I finished reading the board, my rage had simmered into amusement. Sure, maybe Grapple is an overpriced joke. And sure, I could easily make my own Grapples with plain apples and grape soda. But if anyone stands to win here, it’s fat children. After all, Grapples smell like candy. We can trick the little bastards into eating healthy. That’s good parenting.

Antelope Island in April

2006-04-20T00:25:00.000-06:00

Some shots from a recent biking trip to Antelope Island. The Great Salt Lake may smell like a noxious fly-ridden bog at times, but there are other times, especially in the Spring, when it's quite a wonderful place to visit.

26 Years Ago, I Was Birphed

2006-04-17T10:24:00.000-06:00

Today is my Oldness Day, as K and Nardac so aptly put it--marking my rapid decline into middle age. There's a vast, craterous gulf between age 25 and 26, and I have crossed it.

I awoke this morning to a blizzard. Thanks a lot, God. As if you didn't already ravage me with the effects of time and aging, you can't help but rub it in with sub-freezing temperatures? And after weeks of wonderful Spring weather. Just for that I'll be sending even more greenhouse gases to your precious ozone layer.

Seriously, we keep hearing about this Global Warming thing but it's taking FOREVER.

At least I have some exciting activities to look forward to today. Like standing in line at the DMV, having just realized that my driver's license expires. In the good news department, I'm going to be celebrating my newfound elderliness with delicious Indian food in Salt Lake tonight. I just gotta remember not to order anything that will irritate my dentures.

Merry Christmas, Y'all!

History Day Shenanigans

2006-04-11T20:13:00.000-06:00

Last week some coworkers and I were asked to judge a regional History Day competition. History Day is like a Science Fair without the science part. The rules are the same: foam-board displays, pasted-on facts, and glaringly obvious parental involvement. I got assigned to the Elementary school kids, who were pretty easy to locate on account of their tiny, tiny bodies. My job was to walk around with a clipboard, listen to their presentations, and evaluate their worth as human beings. During it all, I frequently daydreamed of driving groups of 10-year-olds to tears with loud, ridiculous declarations ("Could this BE any more pedestrian?!")

Yeah, I didn't do that.

In fact, I was a sucker judge. These kids were too cute for their own good. Most of them were polished, informed, and articulate. Some even wore costumes. How can you grade two girls dressed as Harriet Tubman harshly? Also, the grading system made it difficult to give a realistic score. The three categories were SUPERIOR, EXCELLENT, and GOOD. Frankly, some of the entries I saw were CRAP, but that wasn't a category.

After I had scored all the kiddies, I had to rank them into first, second, and third place. This was probably the most difficult part. My thought process went something like this: "Group-A has a well documented, annotated bibliography. That's good. On the other hand, Group-B is the clear winner in adorableness."

Somehow I got through it.

On the way home, my coworker, Michelle, and I decided to take a small detour into the canyon. We were expected back at the office to finish off the workday, but it was too damned sunny and wonderful outside. So we went wading in a river. Turns out that the water, despite the deceptively pleasant weather, was cold enough to kill a penguin. I suppose unmelted snow near the riverbank should have tipped us off.

Already in the beginning stages of hypothermia, our next great idea was to continue through the canyon to a nearby ski resort. Together we rehearsed the excuse we would offer our boss:

"We tried to get back to the office, honest!" we would say. "But the car suddenly took a wrong turn. And our mothers always taught us that when you're lost, you should always head North. Or in this case, East, towards the mountains. We were as shocked as you are when we found ourselves in skis. Believe us, we have no recollection of ever putting them on. The only logical thing to do at that point was ski home. And for some reason, no matter how hard we skied, we kept ending up back at the resort. It was horrible! I mean, haven't we gone through enough? In fact, why don't you stop badgering us and fetch some hot chocolate?"

Well I still have a job, so sufficed to say, we abandoned that plan. It's too bad though. It would have been awesome.

Hello Again

2006-04-02T23:22:00.000-06:00

I just realized that for the entire month of March, I posted exactly ONE time. That's just sad. If I owned a magical cloning machine, I would totally make a clone of myself, just so I could beat that clone up. Serves him right.

So the good news is, there's nowhere to go but up. Even if I only post once more in the month of April, that's double my March offerings. I'm a guaranteed success. In other news, I changed some burnt-out light bulbs in my house yesterday. I'm like the greatest person that ever lived.

It's all about keeping expectations low.

In conclusion, I wish I had a pet lamb. I would build a cage for it to frolic and play (see photo). Then, in due time, I would eat it. That is my dream.

Oh, Clipart

2006-03-16T10:46:00.000-07:00

Sometimes when browsing the internet for stock images, I come across things that alarm and disturb me. For example, Clipart.com (a bloated mass of deranged drawings, endlessly being pumped out of some kind of work-house asylum) offered me the following:

I can't begin to explain what's wrong with this drawing. First of all, it is offensive to blenders. I refuse to believe that a device capable of delivering such delicious fruity beverages would have a second job as a murder chamber. That's so racist.

Secondly, it's offensive to gnomes. The tiny person inside the blender is clearly some kind of miniature forest creature. Leave the gnomes alone!

And lastly, this image is offensive to large women in yellow dresses. I'm so sick of that ridiculous stereotype. Not all yellow-dressed women use blenders as an implement of torture. What, do you think they spend all day in the kitchen? No. They've got successful, fulfilling careers, and surely can afford a decent pair of nipple clamps.

But maybe we should talk about the larger issue here. Judging by the expression on their face, the woman and her gnome-husband are really hurting inside. Was there a marital dispute? A death in the family? A problem with their tiny, elven children? Whatever the case, this couple needs to learn that one can't just make every problem go away by placing one's spouse in a blender. Sure, it seems like a clear-cut solution, but there are too many negative consequences. Like all the post-blend clean-up. Also, the smell.

Two Weekends of Ski

2006-02-28T22:59:00.000-07:00

You’d think after 5 years of living in Utah, I’d have caught on. But some of us are slow learners. Not long ago, my favorite thing to do with snow was shake my fist at it angrily, yelling obscenities. Things have changed. We’re buddies now, the snow and I.

Two days of cross country certainly has helped our relationship. A few friends and I trekked up into the Uinta mountains, along the border of Wyoming and Utah. We spent most the day pushing ourselves and some equipment sleds along a powdery trail until we reached a cabin tucked into the trees. The snow was deeper than I’ve ever seen it. We had to dig a trail up to the front door, and then another trail, several feet deep, to the outhouse. Let me tell you, if there’s one thing I admire about my gender, it’s the ability to pee standing up. Sorry girls. Mother Nature hates you.

With the help of the stove, we got the cabin from 10 below to 65 Fahrenheit. There’s nothing cozier than a cabin in the woods. I slept great, and the trek back, with shafts of morning spilling through the foliage, was just surreal.

Two days later, I tried downhill. My good friend Jean was visiting from California and had also never skied before. We learned quickly that downhill skiing, like most things, has a learning curve. At first, all I could think was, “I’m going to die, I’m going to die, I’m going to die.” Then, as I figured out how to slow down, I grew a bit less fearful. “This is fun,” I thought, as I flew down the hill. “But surely it can only end in death.”

It wasn’t until the following weekend, when I was back at the same resort for night skiing with some college roommates, that I started to really get the hang of it. And now I’m hooked. In fact, Jean is flying back in a couple weeks and we’re going to give it another go. Plenty of time for all my bruises to heal.

Fish of My Life

2006-02-15T16:37:00.000-07:00

I haven't had much luck with fish. Specifically, pet fish, of the Siamese (or Beta) variety. Known for their ability to survive in cramped spaces with minimal attention and care, they are the ideal pet for lazy people.

Yet two Betas have died on me recently. The first fish, who I had aptly named "Fish," froze to death while I was on vacation in California. A few months later, the second fish, which I named "Fish II," starved to death while I was on vacation in California. Ironically, I had installed an automatic feeder for Fish I, but neglected to leave on a heater. Fish II had plenty of heat, but I just forgot to feed it. If Fish I and Fish II were merged into one super fish, they would have been just fine. So I guess we can only conclude that it serves them both right.

Sure, if we're going to play the blame game, then fine, maybe I didn't exactly take care of them properly. I've decided my problems of neglect stem from me not being home enough. So, after moving into my newly constructed office space, I bought a new fish for work. My computer has been programmed to remind me twice daily to feed the new fish. And he lives in an office environment that is always warm.

But one thing still bothered me. Perhaps naming a fish after its own species was bad luck. Both Fish I and Fish II had kicked the bucket, after all. This time, I felt it appropriate to give my new fish a proper name. And that name is Murderkill.

So welcome, Murderkill, to your new life. You will receive exactly 8 pellets of food per day, in exchange for which you will float around in your glass vase and look interesting. Failing to comply with said rule will result in an immediate reduction in the amount of delicious pellets you receive. I hope we're clear on this. Do your job or it's a one way trip to a toilet bowl near you, mister. We both know that I don't mess around.

Sweet Spam

2006-01-30T11:01:00.000-07:00

I received the following email today:
---
Hi ,
I am Stephani, Remember me?
New Super Web Sites Opened.You Know?
Every Thing Here And Every Thing Super.
This is Not Dream!!! This is Real!!

This is Not Spam Mail.This is Reminder! Thanks.
---

Here was my reply:

---
Dearest Stephani,

Of course I remember you. How could I forget? How long has it been? Five, six years? It seems like forever. But you know what I like about you, Stephani? (besides the bad English and the awkward spelling of your name) -- you're always thinking about other people. Just this morning I was thinking to myself: how can I get my hands on more "New Super Web Sites"? And then I get your wonderful email. You're a dream come true, Stephani. A prayer answered. You make Mother Theresa look like a bloated, rum-loving skank.

But there's one thing that hurts me, Stephanie. That you would think for one second that I would consider your sweet, poetic email to be spam. Of course I know you'd never send me spam. Of course I know that this is merely a "Reminder!" After all these years, you still worry what I think of you? Don’t you remember our quiet cottage in Salem? Don't you remember our three beautiful children?

Is this about Molly? Listen, I know all about how you abandoned her in the woods that one day you went crazy. Honestly Stephani, you can’t beat yourself up about that. I don't know anyone who doesn't consider two out of three non-abandoned children a glaring success. Arthur and Danny are both healthy and happy, functional adults -- living within the nurturing walls of the Nevada State Prison.

You’re wrong about one thing, you know -- that "This is Not Dream!!!” Of course this is a dream. Life with you has always been a dream. And I never want to wake up. Forget about the website, as wonderful as it sounds. I want "Every Thing Here And Every Thing Super" for the rest of my life. Come back to me, darling.

Ever devoted,
Jeremy

Bears

2006-01-21T22:08:00.000-07:00

Bears hibernate for the winter, why can't I? It's only natural. For one thing, I have a lot in common with bears. We're both mammals, right? We're both cuddly. We both enjoy delicious salmon. And who am I to turn down a good mauling now and then?

So I think to myself: why not hibernate? And so I have, both metaphorically and literally. It's not that I don't want to leave at times--but there's something to be said about remaining comfortably lethargic. Indoors is warm. Outdoors is cold. Easy decision.

I'm missing out, of course. For one thing, no one ever told me how fun snow shoeing is. Sure, it certainly doesn't SOUND fun--trotting around in icy mush with tennis rackets attached to your feet. But it's deceptive like that. Even the uphill, stuck-in-deep-snow, wheezing for breath, even that is exhilarating. When the day is just right, and the cold is just the right amount of cold, and there's just enough sun shining, and just enough white landscape--it's all just enough to make you regret the warmth and the comfort. It makes you want to emerge more often--stretch--take a look around. What's the sense of loving the outdoors all but 4 months of the year?

I thought this on Saturday after arriving home exhausted, chunks of snow still stuck to the bottom of my boots. By Monday, I'd forgotten about it. I had the day off and was determined to waste it, to claim the right of deserved relaxation. A few hours I spent attempting a Nocturne. The rest, shopping for an easy chair. I visited 6 different stores. It's amazing the great efforts I will go to in order to more comfortably do nothing.

This is the pace of winter. I have projects to poke at. I have started pottery again. I go out on the weekends, and some nights. But I never feel like myself until things finally start to melt. Until I can go to work with the sun up, and come home with it still in the sky. As if I have no more control than those patient tree buds. Or those cuddly, smelly bears.

Happy New Year

2006-01-01T11:39:00.000-07:00

If you weren't aware, they added an extra second to the clock this New Years -- to satisfy scientists' anal demands that the sun/earth revolution thing be completely accurate. So the question is: what did you do with your extra second of time?

I made the most of mine. Traveled the southern hemisphere. Got lost in the Amazon for at least half of that second. Left my job and became a farmer. Wrote a screenplay, weepy and poignant. Eloped and had two kids -- who were subsequently killed in a car accident. Mourned, and came to terms with things. Watched my fingernails grow...

Hope all your extra seconds were just as enlightening. If not, don't worry too much about it. You've got 31,556,926 more seconds to play with in 2006. Best get started.

Best Be Updatin'

2005-12-15T12:52:00.000-07:00

Has it come to this? Every new blog entry just an excuse about why I’m not blogging? I have a guilty need to explain my absence--if only to stall the inevitable emails asking if I’ve died. I haven’t, but I might as well have -- at least until after Christmas.

I’ve got a book going to press in a week, and the last few weeks I’ve been staying late into the night trying to get it finished. Who sets these imbecilic deadlines? Oh right, my boss.

When the work day finally ends, I eat and go to bed. On the weekends I refuse to even look at a computer. Which makes blogging kind of difficult.

So to Grace, Nardac, Kris, Kim, Adam, CL, Brad, Edwige, Jill, and anyone else who reads this blog regularly: Merry Christmas! Y'all are swell. Enjoy your holiday shopping and whatnot. Don’t get trampled.

I Don't Ski

2005-12-07T11:34:00.000-07:00

Some giant bulimic god has gorged itself on snow cones and purged all over my city.

That’s the kind of snow that has been dumping these past few days. Slushy, crusty, and plentiful. This week, Utah has anything but the “Greatest Snow on Earth.” Utah License Plates, you lie.

Granted, having snow everywhere isn’t without some charm. It changes things up a bit; reminds me that there are seasons and whatnot. And at least it’s consistent with the ideal Christmas environment portrayed in movies and television. And last week when my friend broke her foot while dancing the “boot-scoot boogie” or whatever the hell it was called, we were able to run outside and gather snowballs to ice up her foot and keep down the swelling so she wasn’t screaming with pain all the way to the hospital.

But I’m through making excuses for the snow. Really, nothing good can be said. I don't ski, I don't snowboard, I don't frolic about. T'aint worth it.

Happy AIDS Day, Everyone!

2005-12-01T17:27:00.000-07:00

I hope you all have a wonderful World AIDS Day. Just be sure you're in bed by midnight, because that's when the HIV Fairy of Happiness comes. If you've been good, she'll leave immune-system boosting drugs under your pillow. But if you've been bad, you'll wake up full of dirty needles.

...

I'm going to hell.

California

2005-11-30T00:17:00.000-07:00

Saturday: driving. Sunday: ocean. Monday: blog-friend. Tuesday: high school friends. Wednesday: clubbing. Thursday: cabin with family. Friday: shopping. Saturday: high school friends. Sunday: driving.

That’s the abridged version, which is less expensive and easier to follow. The full version is what I wrote in my head, as events were unfolding. I had twelve hours of driving, in both directions, to organize my thoughts. They unraveled again as I settled back into everyday life. Now those thoughts are all abridged. I wish they weren’t. But I think my brain has a Walmart philosophy: keep it short and cheap. We don’t make money with ponderings. There are too many goods that need storing. It's a matter of space. Sentimentality just isn’t cost-efficient.

Jill, in contrast to me, has a boutique-like mind. She fully digests experiences, keeps them dust-free, and brings them out for company. We had lunch together, and then dinner, because one meal isn’t enough when you have a lot of catching up to do. She reminded me of so many things I had forgotten. I told her that when I am an old man, I will have to call her to remember that my life was good. I will be bent, feeble, and cranky and she will tell me about high school and all those small, delightful things the Walmarts of the world don’t have room for.

It has been a long time since high school, but every year we meet at Thanksgiving. Jill, and Cing, and Mariann, and Luis, and Wilson, and Alice, and Shirley, and Jean, and sometimes Raina, Chan and Magi.

Every year there are new girlfriends and boyfriends and husbands and babies. Actually those last two have only happened once. Mariann is the only mom. She keeps her mini van stocked with toys and her CD player stocked with kid-songs. She still has her sanity though, still giggles at everything. I would have cried if she didn’t.

This Thanksgiving get-together was our 11th annual, but no one keeps track. We had to count it out on our fingers. Cing is our glue. She organizes it all, making sure it still happens every year. Thank God for Cing.

I had fun singing with Jean again. We worked on a four-part harmony, which she arranged, gasping with delight when we blended just right. Made me think of the days when we would ditch 6th period, sneak off to my house and spend the whole time on the piano making up vocal harmonies. And watching Blue’s Clues. I don’t remember why we watched it. I have a Walmart brain, remember.

We all made the food, ate it, did the dishes. We looked at photographs and read excerpts from the literature magazine we created in high school: Stop That Goat. The choose-your-own adventure story we wrote for issue #3 was still hilarious, all its twists and turns fresh again. Why did almost every choice in that story end in some horrible death?

Alice couldn’t make it to the party this year, busy with her new-found karate skills. But I saw her Wednesday when she showed me her apartment in Venice and the boyfriend she shares it with. I like him much better than the last one. She met this new guy in Japan, when she used to live there. She’s lived in a lot of places since high school, been all over. She wins the prize for the most changed of our group. But years of shared-experiences have a way of melting the years of distance. She’s still Alice. I still love her to death.

She was my rave-buddy, back when we did that, so it was good go out dancing with her and Wilson. The club was packed and the rooms had Reggae-dub, house, and strange old-school mixes. There were also spontaneous dance circles and amusing drunk-dancers. Many WTF moments. It was a good time.

And I still had time to meet new friends. Grace has been reading and commenting on my blog for quite a while now. So it would be dumb not to meet up when she lives so close to my home in Cali. I think with most people, I’d rather keep things net-only. I don’t feel some big need to meet everyone in person.

But I’m very glad I met Grace. We went out for Indian food, then watched some funny videos back at her condo where she introduced me to Cannibal: The Musical. We spent the rest of the time talking. And she was so easy to talk to. I think I kept her up way past her bedtime. It’s refreshing when someone is just like they present themselves on their blog. Grace was a joy to hang out with. And she even offered me Depeche Mode tickets. I wish I could have gone! You rock, Grace.

I’ll wrap this up.

It's hard when somewhere that used to be your home becomes your home again for so brief a period of time. I was watching the snow fall on my way back to Utah and thinking of how far away I live, and not just in physical distances. The years that melted away when I saw those old friends have already grown back. Life goes on. No room for these lengthy laments. I have a Walmart brain, remember, nevermind that I hate Walmart.

I'm Off

2005-11-18T13:13:00.000-07:00

I'm ditching this state tomorrow to spend 8 days in California, which used to be my home. This is an ideal time (as it is fast becoming unbearably cold.) When I get back to Utah, there will inevitably be snow on the ground. This happens every year. I cry and cry and cry, but the snow doesn't go away.

If I can stomach the dial-up connection at my home in Cali, I'll do a little blogging as well. It should be a good week. I'm going to meet a fellow blogger for the first time, see high school friends, spend time with family, eat lots of delicious turkey, and, best of all, see the ocean again. Don't get me wrong, I love the pungent stink of the Great Salt Lake and all its accompanying bugs and bogs. But I miss the ocean.

If I'm not back in 8 days, don't wait up for me. It probably means I'm staying.

Bye Bye, fatheads.

Writing Again

2005-11-17T00:38:00.000-07:00

Remember that one time when I said that I'd write again "soon"? Turns out that was a big lie. Who knew?

But I'm going to be honest with you people. I haven't been writing because last week I fell down the stairs in my house and broke both my legs. I couldn't even get across the room to reach my cell phone to call for help. Every movement was excruciating. I survived for five days off a single stale cracker and some granules of laundry detergent. The kind with bleach. Finally, some people from my work stopped by and took me to the hospital. The only thing that got me through it were thoughts of this blog.

Remember that one time when I said I was going to be honest? That was the bleach talking.

But honestly, some may be eager to hear details relating to my previous post about the girl. While it is true that I am dating her, and we've been spending a lot of time together, there isn't much more to it. I was trying to buy time, to explain my long absence. We can leave it at that. I am not in love.

Which reminds me of the time I was trapped in my house with two broken legs. Did I ever tell you about that? It gave me a lot of time to think. At first it was empty kinds of thoughts-- like who would sign my cast and whatnot. Then it got deeper: if I had fallen down in a forest, instead of my house, and no one was around, would I have made a sound? And deeper still: maybe I hadn't fallen down the stairs at all-- maybe the bottom of the stairs had toppled down on top of me.

I will try to write more, because I like writing when I am actually doing it. But other things have been on my mind. Complicated things. Like the probability of falling down stairs. And the probability of never falling in love.

So Sorry

2005-11-10T01:38:00.000-07:00

I know I haven't been updating lately. The girl on the left has been occupying my time. New posts soon.

Buy one, Get 29 Free

2005-10-28T16:38:00.000-06:00

If you’re going to go skydiving, 30 is a good age to do it. That’s what I told my friend Varsey, as her 30th birthday approached. I had it all planned out. Some friends and I were going to pay for her ticket, fly her up high somewhere, toss her out the plane, then have a special “screening” where we all watched the DVD, openly delighting in her fear. It was going to be great.

Going to be. She chickened out before plans were set in motion. Too much stress, she said. Having just gotten a new job at a private school, she insisted her life was stressful enough without dealing with the thought of plummeting hundreds of feet. I was all for doing it anyway -- dragging her bound and gagged into the plane and tossing her out like a sack of potatoes. Surely she would thank me for it later. But no one else thought that was a good idea.

Still, something had to be done. That something took place last Friday. Varsey thought she was going on a blind date, set up by myself and my friend, Shauna, who were to double with her.

We showed up at her house with her date, Dave, in tow. He presented her with a single rose. She grabbed her coat, and off we went. Varsey seemed pleased with Dave, who is the type of person who is always grinning. These kinds of people are either pleasant or really scary. He was the pleasant type. We approached my car and he the opened door for her to get in. When he shut the door, she found herself setting next to someone else, holding out another rose. She looked a little shocked. “Hello!” she said, scooting over. “I guess we’ll just have to make more room.” But Dave was gone, and I was already driving away.

“Where’s Dave?” she asked.
“That’s not my name,” said her new date.
“We’re just going to leave him behind?”
“Leave who behind?” I asked. “Are you feeling okay, Varsey?” Shauna, of course, couldn’t stop laughing.

I stopped for gas, and Varsey’s new date said he needed gum. By the time I was finished at the pump, a third guy was emerging from the store, with another rose.

“But he told me he was just getting gum.” Varsey said, with mock irritation.
“I did get gum,” said the third guy, holding it out for her. “Want a piece?”

By now she knew what was going on, of course. But Varsey’s good at playing along. I drove for a few more minutes, parked, and we all got out of the car.

“You’re turning 30,” I told Varsey. “I figured we’d all go some place nice.”
We walked into the mall food court, taking in the circle of cheap fast food joints packed with teenagers. “Take your pick,” I said.

By the time she got food and found a table, there was a fourth date waiting for her, with another rose. Date #3 feigned anger and stormed out.

“What was that all about?” the fourth guy said, glaring at Varsey. “I thought we didn’t keep secrets from each other.”

It continued like this. My cell phone would vibrate in my pocket. Shauna or I would kick the guy under the table, he would find an excuse to leave, and another guy would show up with another rose. Well, it didn’t always go that smoothly. Sometimes the guy didn’t take the hints, and sometimes the new guy didn’t show up when he was supposed to. Sometimes I even forgot I wasn’t supposed to answer my phone, to the annoyance of Jodi who I had to pretend was my mother.

“Stop calling me, mom,” I would say.
“Shut up, son,” said Jodi who was a few stores away with pools of men waiting to be sent out. “Another one is on the way.”

We had a couple surprises. At dessert, a guy I’d never seen before, sporting tattoos and bandana showed up. Apparently Jodi scooped him up randomly, to replace a no-show. He was “interesting”, to say the least, insisting on giving Varsey a kiss before leaving. Jodi sent out other passer-bys, which made things all the more entertaining. It didn’t take long before we had an audience, half the food court nosily trying to figure out what was going on. Varsey played along nonchalantly, taking it all in stride.

The pile of roses on the table grew until it reached 29. “One more date to go,” Varsey said.
“Excuse me?” said date 29. “All of a sudden I’m not good enough?”

Finally, Dave, her original date, showed up with the 30th rose. It was over. I can't say I was disapointed. You can only stand so much time in a food court. We finished off the night at a campfire, in the woods below a friend’s house. Smores are a good way to end anything, I figure.

By now, it may be that you are gagging on the cuteness of it all, your wind pipe stuffed up with thick chunks of cute. I don’t know what to tell you. This kind of thing is commonplace in Mormondom. Just this week, we had a follow up surprise party for Varsey. Everyone came bearing gifts: 30 of something -- 30 pencils, 30 eggs, 30 band-aids, 30 toilet paper rolls. The main entertainment was a video of the date, which had been taped more or less discreetly. Overly cute? Yes. A good time? Yes.

Still, when I turn 30, I’m going a different route. No need for something complicated and elaborate. No food courts, no campfires, no cute gift ideas. None of that for me. My first idea was the better one, after all. I just want a plane, some anti-anxiety pills, and a long, spiraling plummet. And smores. Don’t forget the smores.

Fall Colors

2005-10-17T00:57:00.000-06:00

Photos taken in the Bountiful hills. Cameras don't do it justice. Best seen live.

Happenings

2005-10-14T17:09:00.000-06:00

Here are some things that have happened:

1.
On my daily walk, I start kicking over toadstools that grow all over this pasture near my work. My coworker turns to me and says, “You’re like that one guy, Gargomel, on the Smurfs.” Then I think to myself: Isn’t that the worst insult ever? To be compared to a hideous old man who lives alone with his cat. Fact is, I do live alone. But I don’t have a cat. Also, I’m totally not an old man. Hideous? Eh, I get her point.

2.
While climbing on the roof to drain my evaporate cooler, I slipped on a tile. I slid a good 10 feet on the wet roof but managed to grab on the storm drain before going over the edge. As I was dangling there, my phone started to ring. Part of me REALLY wanted to answer it, just so when they asked, “What are you doing?”, I could say, “falling to my death.”

3.
Death Cab for Cutie sound fantastic live. This was a pleasant surprise. Not so pleasant was the drunk guy dancing next to me. Even though there was a metal gate between us (segregating the intoxicated) his proximity began to get on my nerves. At one point he would dance like a marionette puppet, “feeling” the music like no one I’ve ever seen. The next minute he would yell out, “Fuck you, Ben Gibbard!” Huh? Which is it, drunk guy? Do you like him or hate him? You can’t have it both ways.

4.
Canadians have their own Thanksgiving? That’s adorable. At the dinner celebration I went to, it was all turkey, mashed potatoes, and cranberries -- staple foods of the American version. So here’s my question: Do Canadians eat the same food for their day of harvest as Americans? I tried to ask, but no one at the dinner was Canadian. It was at that moment I began to wonder what the hell we were doing.

5.
In the hills above Bountiful, Utah, God reached down his gigantic hand and turned up the planet’s saturation knob. Just a little at first; streaks of oranges and reds and yellows mixed with green. The higher we hiked, the higher he twisted. A mile up and the world was vibrant, overwhelming wonderland of color. Since when did trees come in that many varieties? What’s up with that, God?

•••
Nothing else has happened. Nothing. Oh, and one of those five things is a total lie. Just thought you should know.

I'm not working, I'm not blogging

2005-10-10T14:40:00.000-06:00

I have Columbus Day off! I would like to take this opportunity to thank Columbus for whatever it is that he did, which I think had something to do with inventing gravity.

What a handsome devil, that Columbus.

Best Cellphone Accessory Ever

2005-10-03T13:13:00.000-06:00

I so want this "Retro Handset" for my cellphone. There's something magical about using 30-year-old technology for no good reason. Of course, after a few walks down the street with this thing, chatting away, looking like a crazy person, the novelty would start to wear off. Too bad. I'll never be as cool as this guy.

I Like Pot(s)

2005-09-28T11:34:00.000-06:00

If you make pots for a living, it’s a statistical certainty that your personality will fall under the “quirky” category. The potter that teaches my class definitely matches this description. He’s a stocky man with a thick, scraggly beard, a severe stutter, and a tendency to over explain things. But he’s amazing at what he does. He pulls the clay into beautiful shapes with deceptive ease. As the pot spins around, small alterations in his hand positions produce stunning results. When I attempt the same, terrible, terrible things happen.

Yes, my pots are utter crap, but I have only had two lessons. Beginner’s handicap. Once I figure out how to keep all my cylinders from turning into wide, saggy bowls, I’m set.

My classmates consist of a coworker, a couple of mom-types, and a fat, tattooed biker. They’re all pleasant, unassuming folk. It’s turning out to be an excellent choice for a post-college-personal-enrichment activity. Spinning pots is messy, squishy fun. The brownish clay-water that dribbles out of my cupped hands looks like a chocolate smoothie. After each lesson my forearms, shirt, and pants are plastered with dried clay. It feels good to get dirty.

Maybe next I’ll try mud wrestling.

Why Not

2005-09-23T10:57:00.000-06:00

I saw this on Kim's Notebook and curiosity made me try it:

1. Delve into your blog archive.
2. Find your 23rd post.
3. Find the fifth sentence.
4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.

And here's my sentence:
"I can't remember the last time I've had fries so good I'd kill for them."

As true today as it was whenever it was that I wrote it.

The End.

Wake Up, It's 1969

2005-09-20T15:33:00.000-06:00

Does anyone else feel that NASA needs a spanking? If I was an angry, abusive father, and NASA was my naughty little boy, I’d whoop him good. Going back to the moon is cool and all, but why is it going to take us another 13 years? Sure, we’re going to throw in a few more tricks the second time around. We’ll stay there longer, have newer, spiffier toys, prep ourselves for Mars and whatnot. But THIRTEEN YEARS? More than a decade to prepare for what we already did over thirty years ago.

My parents saw the first moon landing when they were 21. I’ll be 38 before I get to see one. Something seems wrong here. For one thing, Disneyland has been lying to us for years. Where is our space age future? The kind where rockets to the moon are as common as subway trains. Where are all the robot butlers and Astro Cola? Where are our shiny silver leotards?

I blame the Russians. They go and ditch communism, try on a spotty version of democracy, and lose their superpower status. Now they’re a neutered, defanged version of what they once were. They don’t scare us, and consequently, we don’t feel like we have to beat them at everything. With the Russians off our backs, we forget all about the moon.

I can imagine what people thought, staring up at Armstrong taking those first steps. I’m sure many imagined that by the year 2018, they could purchase a summer home on Venus, or go for a Sunday drive along the rings of Saturn. Well, sorry, people of 1969, you were horribly mistaken. 50 years later, it'll just be the moon again. That's right -- a bright, shining future of summer reruns.

Chats about Death

2005-09-18T20:37:00.000-06:00

"This next song is about death, and how it doesn't really exist, and how we're all going to live forever."
--Rufus Wainwright, opening for a Tori Amos concert, 2002

***

Our conversation this weekend went something like this:

Jeremy: "Are we still on for Saturday?"
Sheri: "Well, it depends."
Jeremy: "Depends on what?"
Sheri: "On whether or not my grandmother dies."
Jeremy: "She's dying?"
Sheri: "For some time now. My grandfather is getting restless. He wants her to just get on with it."
Jeremy: "That's terrible."
Sheri: "I know. It could really mess up our plans."

Her grandmother did die, and it did mess up our plans. We changed the party location from her family cabin to a cramped basement, up in the hills. She got there late, driving back from southern Utah where she had spoken at the funeral. She said she tried to tell jokes to break the tension, but everyone kept bawling...

Jeremy: "Like you were standing up there drowning puppies?"
Sheri: "Yeah, like that."

Flash forward to later that night. It's after 1 a.m. and a few of us hang around and bring out the guitars. New Guy, a janitor/musician, plays a song he wrote about his uncle. He's doing the soundtrack for a Sundance entry and is really into experimental stuff. When he sings into the thunder tube, high-pitched and slightly off, I kind of want to laugh. But the rest of the song is heart-felt, and sad. He makes it sad. His 72-year-old uncle, who had never spoken a word of English to him, was shot down by the police.

New Guy: "He had a way of communicating with me that didn't require we use the same language."

and later...

"...there was a trail of blood, all the way up the stairs. He was an old man. How can he look threatening?" New Guy is wiping his eyes.

Two conversations about death on the same day, but only one of them gets to me. So far, Death and I, we've kept our distance. He doesn't get in my way, I don't get in his. So I wonder, next time we encounter each other, could I still make jokes? Or should I be spending more time practicing my guitar...

From the Bowels of the Internet

2005-09-13T23:54:00.000-06:00

Not too long ago I hooked this blog up with some code from the wonderful people at StatCounter. This gives me information on who visits the blog, where they visit from, accurately counts the number of visitors, etc. It has become my joy, of late, to check on the google searches people use to find this blog. Yes, sometimes the blog is listed on page 128 or so of these searches, but people find it nonetheless. Who searches 100 pages of google results anyway? Well, crazy people do. And lots of crazy people stumble upon this blog. Here are some of my favorite searches:

"illegal turtles from chinatown" -- If there's one thing I hate about Chinatown, it's all those freakin' turtles.

"naked gathering photos" -- Can't say I've posted any of these, but if you're interested....

"i put the grrr in" -- Thanks a lot, Grace. You've led them to me!

"my parakeet squeaks" -- I'm sorry to hear that. Have you thought about having it killed?

"i luv jeremy" -- As do I. Will you be my internet girlfriend?

"mormon pornstar" -- Really, I'm flattered.

"brittany spear's wedding dress" -- Okay, let's make one thing clear: I have never once mentioned Brittany Spears on this blog, nor do I ever plan to. Where is this coming from?!

"fleshy entrails" -- My god! What are you looking for man? Whatever it is, I don't have it!

"nipples on pornstars" -- To save you the trouble of further inquiries: Yes, pornstars have nipples.

"meth vomit blood" -- Okay, I brought that one upon myself.

"Peta and snickers" -- The Ethical Treatment of Animals and a delicious, nougaty snack. There's a combination everyone can enjoy.

How I love it all! The more deranged people of the internet find my blog, the happier I am. To encourage more of these searches, here are some suggestive keywords:

FUNGUS TICKLE, FAT DUNG LOVE, HAIRY BUTLER SLAP, SALIVATING CHAMBER MAIDS, TEEN FETUS ENVY, and so on.

That should keep 'em busy.

This Ain't Sarcasm

2005-09-13T23:14:00.000-06:00

I've been listening to the judicial confirmation hearings all day long, for two days straight. Not because I have a particularly strong interest in politics or the confirmation process itself, or some kind of perverted need to hear the drawl of long-winded senators. The reason is simple: it has increased my productivity. Ever since I tuned in, I have been finishing projects in record time. I listen to senators postulate endlessly, to Judge Roberts' brief, jargonistic replies, and I find myself designing my pages faster. As they all blather on, I'm arranging text and graphics more efficiently.

I can't explain it. It doesn't make sense to me. But who am I to argue with progress? By all means, senators, perpetuate the discourses and diatribes. I'll keep listening, and getting more done.

How About This

2005-09-07T23:18:00.000-06:00

I think there should be some kind of cubicle exercise chair. (Note to inventors: start inventing.) It could be as simple as a regular chair with pedals attached. Or maybe I could just mount an office chair and desk onto an exercise bike. I could even rig it so peddling would power the computer. That'd keep me motivated.

Here's my Photoshopped prototype:

We Have Walls

2005-09-07T22:11:00.000-06:00

My fingers are crammed into a wedge of rock. My fat boots are only partially lodged in a shallow crevice. Already I can feel my weight tugging me from the wall. I hastily scan the too-smooth surface for a better grip. My thoughts are this: Spiderman is a fraud. First of all, even if he does have some kind of magic ability to stick to walls, surely the weight of his body would rip his skin off. Yet he still manages to stick to sheer objects like lint on velvet, making the whole ordeal look ludicrously easy. Then again, unlike me, he doesn't make a habit of climbing rock walls with gigantic hiking boots. Score one for Spiderman.

Twice more up the wall, a couple of bloodied knees later, I finally get wise. This time I go barefoot, my toes reaching into small cracks and lifting me with ease up to higher, smoother areas. I almost feel like I can shed the harness. Almost. The lack of boots cuts my climbing time in half. I slap my hands on the top of the wall with satisfaction. Then I propel back down, slowly, preferring to keep skinned feet from slamming on sharp rock.

I've decided I like rock climbing. Even the heights-thing. Even the total-body soreness afterwards. Really, any intense activity outside a cubicle is welcomed.

All around my building, the walls are going up. The warehouse below me is being doubled in size. We hear drilling and banging and screeching metal. Every day at exactly 3:30 p.m., I take a walk with some coworkers. We circle the block, stopping to admire the new calves behind a neighbor's wooden gate. We collect wormy apples from the ground to feed the horses. The area is a strange mixture of rural and industrial. There are concrete office buildings within view of a duck pond. We pull fresh plums from a stumpy tree half a block from construction cranes.

Then, at the end of every walk, we stop to watch the walls. Some days they are pouring them, other days lifting them. All the cement reminds me of the half-finished complexes dotting suburban Dakar. Those walls looked like the gray, flaky ribs of something prehistoric and complicated. These walls are simple, plain, lacking flair.

I find myself wanting to climb them, to discover the cracks on their sheer surface. I want to see something exciting somewhere in this scene of expanding workspace. We have new walls, but nothing new.

Yo

2005-09-05T23:15:00.000-06:00

New post soon. Promise.

Big Fat Mormon Wedding

2005-08-28T21:05:00.000-06:00

I flew home for two days to attend my youngest sister's wedding. As soon as I touched down in LAX, saw the swirling chaos of the airport, stood forever on the curb waiting for my ride while listening to that harsh, unending chorus of car horns, and then spent the next hour stuck in traffic, relaying hasty messages via cell phone for my mother -- I felt nothing but dread for the upcoming weekend. That Death Cab song kept flowing through my head. The one about Los Angeles:

"...I can't see why you'd want to live here."

I spent 18 years living there. Life in Utah feels so unrushed, so underwhelming in comparison. But looking at the palm trees lining the road near my house, I couldn't help but want to stay right where I was. Something about those palm trees made me want to move back home.

The wedding itself took place in a temple, as is the practice among devout Mormons. My sister went with the temple in San Diego, one of my favorites. It looks like it's cut from the horizon. The architecture has been described as "spaceship gothic." Sounds right to me.

Got sunburned afterwards as I snapped photo after photo following the sealing ceremony. We had a wedding photographer but I couldn't help myself. It was all too picturesque.

Then of course the reception, which was every bit as elaborate as for my oldest sister. This time instead of a Paris theme, it was 1940s hotel art deco. The colors: red, white, and black. The flowers: roses.

First, a thousand different poses with the wedding photographer, my mother insisting on every possible combination of relatives and friends. She was in her usual overstressed panic which I've learned to both love and hate. I couldn't help but laugh the next day when she realized that in the midst of all the posing, she had forgotten to ask for a shot with just the immediate family.

Second, standing in a line for an hour greeting well-wishers, stating and restating my obvious relationship with the bride, fixed with a perma-grin and an epileptic hand. I did not recognize my old piano teacher and she did not recognize me. One of us had lost 100 pounds, the other had put on a couple feet.

Third, the food, the stuff I'd been staring at all during the wedding-line torture hour. But I only had time for a few bites before I felt compelled to pick up my camera again.

Fourth, the entertainment, the best part. My father has conditioned us all to love "old-timey" music. He is a pianist and 20s, 30s, and 40s are his specialty. This music has always been a big part of my family life. I can't listen to "I Don't Know Why" without pangs of sadness, picturing my great-grandmother singing the words at her 100th birthday party, the year before she passed away. This time my sister sang it, as a tribute to my grandparents, walking over to them with the microphone. It was touching. She sang several songs while my father played and her new husband accompanied with his guitar. I was shocked at how good she sounded. I know she can sing well, but sometimes I forget how suited her voice is to the genre. She was vibrant, energetic, glowing. When she sang "Cheek to Cheek" I felt my eyes grow moist. I felt like one of those blubbery fat ladies you see sobbing in the pews in movie weddings, mascara dripping from their eyes. When it's your little sister, you're allowed.

The rest of the night was all cake, bouquet tossing, and dancing -- the usual wedding business. We all watched the bride and groom drive away when it was over, toilet paper fluttering behind their car, cousins blowing bubbles, and my mother and aunt screaming, "Bye bye fatheads!" at the top of their lungs (as is tradition in my family.) We were red-faced and laughing by the time the car was out of sight. That's a good way to end a wedding, I'm thinking.

For the second night in a row I stayed up in the early hours of the morning, this time helping with the clean-up and then eating cold wedding food as we discussed how the evening had went down. Now it was more than palm trees that was making me feel homesick. There are so many times in my life here in Utah when I wish I could just gather around a dining room table late at night, eat cold food, and talk with my family.

Sorry Death Cab, I know exactly why I want to live there.

The Blog Cabin

2005-08-19T10:16:00.000-06:00

Turns out Abraham Lincoln, the great emancipator and assassinatee, had a blog. You can read it here. The posts are in reverse chronological order, so if you want get the full civil war experience, start from the bottom and scroll up. Do enjoy.

---
"The Blog Cabin" was actually written by Eric Snider, a humor columnist and movie critic. Check out his website and/or blog. I'm a fan.

Not Just Talking Soup

2005-08-17T01:35:00.000-06:00

I did it. I threw away the ham.

I had stopped picking at the leftover half not long after the party, when I couldn’t stand the thought of one more honey-baked slice. Still, the ham remained in the fridge. It was all about guilt, about not wasting. The Indians would use all parts of the buffalo, you see, and although this was more out of necessity and not so much about maintaining some abstract equilibrium with nature, still, I couldn’t bring myself to toss the pig.

I emailed my mother on her cruise ship with my dilemma. How long will ham last in the fridge, I wanted to know, and how can I turn it into soup? Specifically, that sublime soup she makes every year, just after Christmas. She took time from her wilderness excursions and tango lessons to reply. Soak small white navy beans overnight, she said. Boil them in tomato juice. Then something about bay leaves, onions, cutting ham off the bone, words to that effect. I have to be honest with myself. I'm not Mr. Chef-boy America. I only cook for special occasions, and usually when a girl is involved, one that needs impressing. The rest of the time, I'm okay with an aluminum can. I'm okay with barely edible oven-ready meals. I'm at peace with my sub-par gastronomic choices.

I decided against the soup, but left the ham in the fridge, just in case I changed my mind in the middle of the night. Perhaps I would be jerked awake with an overwhelming urge to chef-it-up. I could see myself jumping out of bed, rushing down the stairs, and doing a little dive and roll towards a wooden spoon and cutting board.

This never happened. The soup, like so many of my projects, did not make it past the concept. Just like the several dozen unfinished music loops, left dormant on my computer from attempted techno mixes. Or the hundreds of self-made promises that I will pick up the violin again and not throw away 13 years of lessons. Or all the unopened tablature books lying next to my guitar. Or the half-white, half-painted canvases, still bearing faint graphite marks from old pencil sketches. Or my sparsely-weeded garden, one abandoned work glove buried deeper every day in fresh batches of green. Or the stack of short letters never mailed to friends in France or Senegal, because I keep thinking I will spell-check the French. Or all those futile attempts to pursue a meaningful romantic relationship...…

I always feel like I'm a project or two away from accomplishment. Just a few simple tasks away from feeling content. But it's never the case. I scatter out my interests in fifty directions, and in turn I'm left with little to show for my efforts. I really admire the uber-motivated folk, the kind who like to talk about how they won’t let anything stand in their way and how they follow their dreams and whatnot. Well, maybe admire is too strong a word. Let's try...loathe. Yeah, that sounds better. I loathe how I can't get anything done.

Except maybe two long blog posts about ham. I’m all over that.

Dog Heads in the Night

2005-08-12T12:35:00.000-06:00

Went water skiing yesterday. The skiing part didn’t last long though, on account of the choppy water. So I switched to tubing, which was better suited to the conditions. Unfortunately the whole experience has left me with some kind of rigor mortis, sans the death part. Everything is sore...everything! In retrospect, I should just have let go of the tube when I was rolling around in the water, or somersaulting in the air. When your body isn’t used to holding onto things in extreme conditions, it has the tendency to make you pay for it later.

Crazier than water stunts, however, was the ride home, along a dark mountain highway. There was this horse trailer in front of me, and I’m staring at it and suddenly I see something huge. Maybe it was the fatigue or all the lake water I inhaled, but I swear I saw a gigantic dog head, peeking out from the back of the trailer. I mean, this dog’s mother must have had romantic relations with a dinosaur for it to have a head that size. The dog swayed back and forth in the trailer, its movements so natural and convincing I decided I must be losing my mind. We were driving too slow for my taste, but I couldn’t change lanes. I was transfixed. I kept staring, and the dog kept staring back at me, jiggling its head.

But when we hit a major highway, and were at last surrounded by lights, I realized I was not staring at a dog with a severe case of elephantitis, but rather the ass of a very large horse. The spots on the horse ass still formed a dog face, even with all the light around, but the illusion had shattered. Stupid horse. It was much cooler as a dog.

Capped off the night by watching the meteor shower into the wee hours of the morning. The night was clear and the shooting stars left long trails across the sky. Made me think of Ray Bradbury’s short story, “The Rocket Man” --- the part where an astronaut’s son looks up at the night sky and points to a shooting star. It’s his father’s rocket, tragically breaking apart in the atmosphere. The mother smiles down at the kid, and says, “Make a wish.”

Nice man, Ray Bradbury. I met him once at a book signing. He was chewing on a hamburger, little pieces of food flying out of his mouth while he was signing my book. I was supposed to meet him a second time, years later, when my dad was doing the music for a radio show version of his book, “The October Country." But illness prevented him from showing up to the recording. Consequently, my initial impressions of him remain. Nice man, great writer...nasty, sloppy eater.

Not that water sports, phantom dog heads, or Ray Bradbury have anything to do with each other. Unless, of course, they have EVERYTHING to do with each other. Or did I just blow your mind?

To Whom It May Concern:

2005-08-11T12:44:00.000-06:00

This is an automatic blog entry, set to be posted in the event of a global cosmic manifestation. If you are reading this, it means the Rapture has taken place and your friend, Jeremy, was scooped up into the sky.

It also means that, for reasons of your wickedness, you were LEFT BELOW. Do not panic. It is normal to feel Post-Rapture Anxiety (or PRA as it is most commonly known). Take a deep breath, relax, don’t think about all the nasty eternal damnation awaiting you. Take solace in the fact that lots of people will share your terrible fate. You’ll be partying it up with the likes of Courtney Love, Sean Hannity, and Haitian dictator Francois ‘Papa Doc' Duvalier, just to name a few.

In the meantime, rest assured that Jeremy is in a much better place, eating delicious nachos and chillin’ in the clouds with his homeys. Perhaps you should think about sending him a check in the mail. Maybe he’ll put in a good word for you.

Ham and Murder

2005-08-07T18:04:00.000-06:00

I've been holding onto a gift certificate for a honey-baked ham since Christmas, waiting for a good opportunity to use it. The company I work for seems to tailor their gifts to the needs of families and not to single people. Or at least not single people of the non-obese or gluttonous variety. Really, it's hard to finish off a gigantic ham by oneself. Yes it can be done, but it's hard.

I've been waiting for occasions all year to use the ham, but when opportunities had arisen, the certificate was nowhere to be found. (Well, it was SOMEWHERE to be found, but if it wants to hide under piles of junk in a kitchen drawer, it should first state its intentions). Every once in a while it would turn up again, but by then I had neither the time nor the willpower to plan an elaborate party. I actually almost brought it with me last week when I was invited to a Seder dinner. Thankfully I realized the fullness of my stupidity before I could embarrass myself. That would have been good. I can see it now:

"Hi everyone, sorry I'm late, I had to stop by and pick up this big juicy hunk of dead pig. I know it violates your religion and everything, but it's honey glazed. HONEY GLAZED!"

No, that would not have gone over well. Still, I kept waiting for a special occasion. So when I stumbled across this "How to Host a Murder" game, I thought: perfect. Cheesy costumed role-play and delicious pork. A winning combination. And so I planned it, invited 7 friends, and collected my ham.

One has to accept a certain degree of comfortable geekiness with these things. It all comes together like a high school drama improv game. You're assigned a character, you dress up, you attempt an accent, you fail miserably. The game was set in a 1920s Chicago speakeasy and in the beginning we were moderately successfully with the correct accents, but in the end we ran the gamut of bad impersonations, from British whore to New York urchin, until we inexplicably all settled into Southern accents of privilege. WTF?

The point is, we ate the ham and it was fantastic. And the game was a blast, turns out. I wouldn't at all be opposed to doing something like it again. Maybe next year, next ham.

P.S. I was a golfer -- puffy pants, cap, and argyle socks.

Five Reasons to Buy a Baby Cow

2005-08-04T13:59:00.000-06:00

1. Calves are cute, miniature versions of real cows.

Kind of like fun-size snack bars, or Tom Cruise.

2. Calves have large, freaky eyes.

If I ever wanted to make an artsy concept film, all I would have to do is zoom in on an eyeball as it looks around for about 5 minutes, splice in some Philip Glass and BOOM. Film festival gold.

3. Calves can eat the weeds in my garden.

Because having to weed a garden is a horrible, horrible thing. I don’t see how anyone could possibly enjoy it. But I can tell you one thing: if I ever find such a person, I will take them aside and I will murder them.

4. Calves are large enough to feel like a real pet, but small enough to be tucked away, out of sight.

I can keep mine locked up in the pantry until I require its presence. Then, as soon as the novelty of owning a calf wears off again, back into the dark closet it goes. Maybe I could even vacu-pac it into a dresser drawer, next to my socks; save even more space.

5. When you’re bored with your calf, you can eat it.

The world would be a better place if this applied to all relationships. Bossy relative, annoying neighbor, obnoxious spouse? Cannibalize, cannibalize, cannibalize.

Stir-crazy

2005-08-02T00:12:00.000-06:00

My parents are on a cruise in Alaska, my sister is traveling in Russia, my brother is preaching in Mexico, my other siblings are enjoying the California sun. What am I doing here, tied down, in the often-dreary confines of northern Utah?

I have the travel bug, the itch. I want to get in my car and drive, all night and all day, sleep at rest stops, make small talk with small-town gas station workers. I want to abadon my car in a parking lot, find an airport, get on a plane, fly. I want to catch the bus from the airport to some distant stop, get off, walk unknown neighborhoods. I want to find a run-down motel, book a room for a week, and flirt every day with the Hispanic maid. She can be pretty or plain, I won't be picky. I want to get out of this house.

Maybe it's just me feeling sick. When you stay home all day, without any particular purpose other than to be sick, the walls can get to you. It's not that I stayed in bed the whole time. I worked on invitations for a dinner party, re-strung my guitar, watched Battlestar Galactica reruns, shopped online for sheet music, ate cold pizza, threw-up, and read myself unconcious. But it was too much time indoors, alone in this house.

I'm going to work tomorrow. I plan on feeling up to it. Then I'm going to seriously look into taking a trip. A long trip. Somewhere with pygmies or Eskimos or gigantic insects. I'm not picky. Just far away, out of this state, out of this house.

Ugh.

2005-08-01T11:38:00.000-06:00

Home sick. Will blog later. Must talk like cave man.

This is just to say...

2005-07-29T09:42:00.000-06:00

I put up a new profile picture. But on closer inspection, I think it makes me look evil. It didn’t look so dark on my computer at home. So I might have to change it again. In which case, there goes an hour of my life I can never get back.

I was supposed to go to a Jewish Seder last night. Well, that’s what I thought. Turns out I was completely wrong. Good thing I left a message on the answering machine of the host letting her know that I’d be late. She called back and explained that it would actually take place on Sunday. Why did I think Thursday? In fact I was CONVINCED it was Thursday. So much so that I had planned my week around it. Altered my life plans. Structured the very fabric of my being around the fact I would be eating unleavened bread on Thursday night.

But Sunday makes much more sense. It’s a religious dinner. Of course it would be Sunday. So, my plans cancelled, I did what anyone would do: I took pictures of myself. And now I realize the picture I’m using for this blog is freaky. Thanks a lot, last-night-Jeremy. If I had a time machine, I’d totally go back and bitch-slap myself.

EDIT: I lightened up the photo quite a bit and it looks less creepy-internet-pervert-out-to-molest-your-daughters. This is good.

Marriage-a-Thon (and on and on)

2005-07-22T11:38:00.000-06:00

It’s that time or year again. Seems like everyone I know (and their poodles) are getting married. That’s what happens when you live in Mormondom, where the wedding punch flows like cheap liquor at a frat party. A never-ending flow. And I’m stuck in the middle of it, attending reception after reception, carting around gift registries, filling out cards with good advice, dressing up, dancing to the caustic thump of bad DJs.

I’m used to it now, and it’s really not all bad. There have been some enjoyable weddings. Yesterday was an all-day affair. I took the day off work, got up early, and headed to the Logan temple. My good friends Stephanie and Robert were tying the knot and I was to take photographs outside after the sealing ceremony. If you ever have a chance to go to a Mormon temple open-house (the free tour before they’re closed to the public), I would highly recommend it. The sealing rooms are breath-taking: the luminous chandeliers, the alter, the mirrors that reflect everything a thousand times.

Robert is from the Czech-republic and had to translate for his mother throughout the ceremony. She just sat there and beamed. I had stopped by their house the day before to show Stephanie the wedding slideshow I was making for them. Robert’s mom, who was seeing all the photographs for the first time, kept gasping with delight. Made all those hours worth it. Later, when I was going through the line at the reception, she held on to my hand tightly and kept thanking me in Czech. You can’t not like the woman.

Of course there are bad parts. Taking photographs in the hot sun when it’s over 100 degrees outside is akin to chewing on jagged bits of scrap metal. Then, racing back to my house to insert the photos and videos into the slideshow in time to make the luncheon... well let’s just say that was also “fun.” As the DVD is burning, I’m trying to throw on fresh clothes but foolishly answer the door and have to spend time shooing away a man trying to sell me coupon books. Then I’m on the phone trying to convince a caller that no, I’m not selling my house, despite my number being printed in the newspaper. I’m not looking forward to the calls I’ll be getting with that screw-up.

Finally, at the reception I can relax, my only concerns are to restart the DVD when it runs its course, and take a few candid photographs of the goings-on. The reception hall is classy, tastefully decorated and completely void of lame DJs. There is a large chocolate fountain with platters of fresh fruit. I enjoy myself.

Of course, the wedding season is far from over. Just the night before I was at my cousin’s reception and in a month I will fly to California to see my younger sister married.

Myself, I’ll probably spend a good many years waiting to catch that garter. I’m nowhere near marriage-ready. That requires dating someone for more than three months. Hah! One obstacle at a time.

iPodcast

2005-07-19T17:26:00.000-06:00

Can I tell you how much I love Podcasts? They make my everyday existence so much nicer. I spend 8 hours a day in a cubicle, mouse clicking away, headphones blaring some kind of audio distraction. Sometimes it’s books-on-tape, sometimes NPR, sometimes SomaFM, and sometimes MP3s. I’m always looking for some kind of new audio distraction to make the day less monotonous. Sure the design process itself is intriguing, but when you work on books, some pages are a lot less thrilling than others.

Enter podcasts. Apple recently released iTunes 4.9 which has podcasting built in. Now it’s really easy to subscribe and listen to all kinds of interesting shows. For a phenomenon that started just last year, it’s amazing the diversity of what’s out there. I’ve decided to list a few of my favorite shows for y’all. Even if you’re stuck with an IBM PC, you can still use iTunes (or a straight RSS feed) and enjoy this stuff.

Cinecast - Movie reviews and such. Updated weekly.

Tips from the Top Floor - Helpful advice on digital photography. It’s not all techie, so it’s easy to understand. Produced three times a week by some German guy.

Earthcore - a Podcast-only novel, read by the author. It took me a while to get past the author’s annoying character voices. His women just sound creepy. Plus, he tries a bit too hard to sound badass. But the story seems interesting enough, Crichton-esqe with a sci-fi theme. New chapters come out weekly.

EDIT: I just finished this one. DON'T BOTHER with it unless you like pointless horror novels. Bad writing, bad plot. Don't waste your time.

Engadget - Weekly news and discussion about technology and new products. I find it entertaining. It speaks to the nerd in me.

MacCast - Like engadget but focuses solely on Mac-related stuff.

Science@Nasa - all kinds of space-related news and stories. Interesting stuff. The male host’s voice can be a bit distracting, however.

Accident Hash - great mix of “pod-safe” music (not owned by a record label). Some real gems in there. Updated frequently.

And for a good directory of podcasts: Podcast Alley

Hotter Than Yo Mama

2005-07-18T10:24:00.000-06:00

The high in northern Utah is going to be a mere 90 today. You have no idea how happy this makes me. I am crying tears of joy as we speak. Crying like a diseased orphan who has tasted chocolate for the first time. You see, it's been over 100 degrees for about a week now and my evaporative cooler is broken. That means the temperature inside my house is only slightly cooler than the surface of the sun. Why does it have to be so hot? I blame global warming, because I like to make outrageously misinformed statements when naturally occuring weather cycles anger me.

I've been camping out in my basement, where it's much colder than the rest of the house. I have multiple fans going and have established laws banning the wearing of clothing.

Come Wednesday, a repair man will be stopping by to fix my defunct cooling system. By then, I expect I will have lived so long in my cave I will have forgotten how to interact with the outside world. I will wonder where this strange, uniformed man-ape came from and whether or not he is edible. When he makes the cool air come back on, I will surely think he is a powerful god sent to bring back the great snows. Perhaps I will have established a successful maintenance-man centered religion, complete with clergy and virgin sacrifices, before I finally regain my senses.

Yes, it is THAT hot.

Luckily, over the weekend I escaped some of this heat by fleeing to the mountains. Brighton, a popular Utah ski resort, is pretty magnificent this time of year. I was waylaid at one point on my trip when a large, shaggy horse stopped in the middle of the road. Then I noticed there were people all around this ugly horse taking pictures. Then I realized this horse was a moose. And not an intelligent moose. She was standing in the middle of the road eating gravel! Who does that?

I saw several other moose on that trip, meandering about like they own the forests or something. I think the plural of "moose" should be "meese." It works for geese, don't it? I am so sick of these mother-effing grammatical exceptions.

Back at the resort, we (friends and I) had an entire manor to ourselves, thanks to these friends' string quartet performing for the manor owners. But it all ended too soon. It was a sad, sad time when I drove back down to the sweltering city. I contemplated doing a 360 on the freeway and starting a few head-on collisions. You know, kill everyone for their own good.

Yes, it is THAT hot.

Two Down

2005-07-13T17:27:00.000-06:00

I'm all giddy-like. My second book came in today, hot off the press. It's just so tremendously satisfying to flip through 10 months of hard work. I'll look at certain pages and remember exactly what I was thinking or doing when I designed it. That spread on Ben Franklin -- I was listening to NPR. That sidebar on labor unions -- I was eating a fat, delicious taco. Which makes me wonder why I have a hard time remembering other things.

Because you're all visual learners, I grabbed the camera here at the office, made sure no one was looking, and snapped a photo of me and the book. I would look happier but at the time I was wondering when the stupid self-timer would go off. Oh, and the plant from my cubicle somehow got in the way. You get the point.

Two books on Pennsylvania out of the way. I'm so glad I've moved on to other states. I was so sick of it. If Pennsylvania and I were dating, we would totally have had a long, painful break-up. Now the wretched state is no longer my problem. All I have to say is that those middle-school kids better learn from this book, or so help me, I'll hunt them down and beat them with it. Beat them senseless.

Porch Fruit

2005-07-12T14:20:00.000-06:00

I found a severed head on my porch this morning. I had opened the door, expecting only to retrieve my weekly delivery of delicious hormone-free milk when I first spotted the head. It wasn’t your ordinary, run-of-the-mill decapitated head. The insides were stuffed with jellybeans, tootsie-rolls, and lollipops. Also, the head was a piñata.

I had to think back. Who would murder a piñata and deposit its remains on my porch? About fifty people sprang to mind. After narrowing the list down to people I actually know, I figured it out. I remembered getting a call last weekend while I was driving to Wyoming inviting me to some Mexican-themed party. I had to decline the invite because I was on my way to spend a few days attacking the Snake River with raft and paddle. The party-goers must have messed around with some piñatas and then, drunk on the fiesta spirit, decided to cast their leftovers on my porch.

The piñata looked like it was hand-made at the party -- yellow with two black spots for eyes and one large, black gaping mouth. Pretty shoddy craftsmanship. It is times like these when I wish I led a secret double-life as a homicidal maniac. Then I could procure a REAL severed head and leave it on THEIR porch. Maybe I could even stuff it with candy.

But the head is not important. In fact, what I really wanted to write about was the river trip. Three days of rafting, camping, and general outdoorsy activity. Very satisfying. The Yellowstone corner of Wyoming is breathtaking. Nothing better than floating down a river with densely packed pine trees on rolling mountains, visited frequently by deer and bald eagles. Plus, the Snake has good rapids.

On the second day, the layers of sunblock, sweat, dirt, and bug spray got to be too much. For the first time in my life I grabbed some soap and bathed in the river. It wouldn’t have been so bad if a raft hadn’t passed by with leering onlookers just as I was shampooing my hair. I felt like a dirty hippie.

But who cares, camping is great. Two weeks ago I camped with some friends at Bear Lake, which straddles Utah and Idaho. We enjoyed a 1 a.m. swim in the freezing lake water. Nothing so refreshing as not being able to feel your limbs. We were looking for the Bear Lake Monster, which is rumored to frequent the waters. I swear I saw a glimpse of it, although the blurred splotch I saw was more than likely just an artifact of hypothermia.

I love the summer. I love the sun. I love sleeping under the stars. Much better than the 8 hours a day I spend in this freezing office. It’s 97 degrees outside and I have to wear a jacket. They have the air conditioning pumped way up so the warehouse workers downstairs don’t get too hot. It isn’t natural. I come in and freeze and go out and sweat. One of these days I’m just going to lose it and heads are going to roll.

Keep your eyes on your porches.

Purple and Red and Yellow

2005-07-05T23:45:00.000-06:00

Anyone remember Orbital's, "Little Fluffy Clouds"? I think it got some radio play in the early 90s. There's this line: "The sunsets were purple and red and yellow and on fire and the clouds would catch the color..." It keeps repeating over and over again in true classic techno style. Anyhow, it kept running through my head over the weekend after I hiked Ensign Peak (above Salt Lake City) to see the sunset and watch fireworks. Amazing sunset. INCREDIBLE sunset. And we could see firework shows from about 6 cities at once. Hurray. Now enjoy the photos.

One Year and Counting

2005-06-29T23:03:00.000-06:00

It's my blogivesary! I have now officially been blogging for a year. Raise your hand if you've been reading since Day 1......crap, do I hear crickets chirping? Yes, I do.

I've never managed to post daily, but I try to keep the posts coming at least weekly. My readership is pretty small, but I have managed to breach 10,000 hits. Really, that's good enough for me.

And now, in this special anniversary edition, I'm going to list my all-time favorite posts. Click on one, when you get a chance, and have yourself a sit. If you're reading this, then you're guaranteed to like these posts. I'm a big fan myself.

Here's to another year!

TOP TEN All-Time favorite Posts:

1. Why, Dex, Why? The trauma of receiving too many phone books.

2. Champagne and Big Macs How I became a French stereotype.

3. Walmart Banshee Walmart induces uncontrollable hysteria.

4. Holy Sandwich, Batman! The Virgin Mary: mother of God AND a tasty snack.

5. Punch, Punch, Punch Voting time is fun time.

6. Please Pass the Adipose My frustrations with not being able to gain weight (which, unfortunately, is no longer a problem for me).

7. What the Scrap? The Great Scrapbook Crash of 2011.

8. Obsess Me Why I need an obsession.

9. Tamped On The magical world of feminine hygeine.

10. I, Cellphone Robots, technology dependence, and the horrors of losing my cellphone.

11. Marriage-a-Thon My very first post! Two wedding receptions in one night, stuck in the car with my mother. What could go wrong?

Dear Judge Judy

2005-06-23T12:28:00.000-06:00

Why you gots to be so effin mean all the time? You is always screamin and bitchin and gettin all mad and I'm all like, that is so unneccessary. You is like some kind of female madman.

Luv,
Jeremy

The Downward Spiral

2005-06-19T20:33:00.000-06:00

What could be better than a 1,500-foot-long spiral made up of earth and rocks? Everything, that's what.

I went to go see the Spiral Jetty on Friday and I was sorely disappointed. The newspaper made it sound so much cooler. Also, the website made is sound much easier to find. Why do we live in a world of lies?

I invited a couple friends to go with me, but when we all met up on Friday, seven more people showed up and we had to take two cars. This was a bad idea and contributed to us getting lost on more than one occasion. The Spiral Jetty is somewhere on the northern tip of the Great Salt Lake, accessible only by rocky dirt roads that seem to go on forever.

Although the website told us to take the "main gravel road" from the Golden Spike Historical Site (where the eastern and western railroads met up way back when), there were several main gravel roads. And of course we went down the wrong one, made the wrong turns, and ended up staring at cows way out in who knows where. By the time we figured out the correct path, the light was failing and the other car wussed out and left.

This is where my stubbornness kicked in. You don't drive around for three hours, only to turn around and go home without seeing the gigantic pile of rocks you came to see. My car pressed on until the road narrowed and we had to drive slowly over boulder-strewn paths, trying to find a big abandoned trailer so we'd know where to turn next. These are the times when I wish I had an 4-wheel drive instead of my tiny, micromachine of a car. It's great in the city, but it's not supposed to go off-roading. Why haven't I learned this?

We kept driving, despite all common sense, dodging rabbits who kept jumping in front of the car and large owls that would wait until the very last second to flap away from my oncoming headlights. Finally, after passing all the designated cattle guards, finding the rotting old boat and trailer, and turning onto the final stretch of dirt road, we had to stop. My car could no longer traverse the terrain without getting butchered. We got out and hiked the rest of the way, fighting the setting sun. I wasn't about to miss getting some photos after all this trouble.

We happened upon two ladies who were relieved to find other people. "We're not the only crazy ones," they laughed when we caught glimpse of them. They explained that they had just came from the jetty but were upset they had forgotten their cameras. We decided I would email them some shots if I could. The light was almost gone at this point, and we ran the rest of the way. Finally we reached the jetty and I was able to squeeze out a few pictures.

Seeing the twisted piece of 70s concept art was not as cool as it should have been. Recent rains had washed away the encrusted salt covering and darkening skies made it hard to see the pinkish hue of the algae-ridden saltwater around it. But the point was that we had made it there, despite the bad directions and the bad roads and the suicidal bunnies.

It's one of those things where you're all pissed off but then it's suddenly all over and you think, "wow, that didn't suck so bad after all." The Spiral Jetty turned out to be just a bunch of rocks, yes, but the craziness of getting there was really the entertaining part. Good laughs, good friends, good memories. You know, the kind you'd talk about if you lived in one of those coffee commercials where you reminisce, perched over steaming mugs.

But none of us live in a coffee commercial. Let us never speak of it again.

What Blogger Am I?

2005-06-14T09:45:00.000-06:00

So I'm participating in a little blog swap game. The information is all on Mike's blog. The list of the participants is one post up. One of them was assigned to me at random. Basically you have to guess which blogger on that list I'm imitating. I'm using their style but writing about my own life. So without further ado....

------------------------------------

there’s this woman at work who’s way too fucking friendly. she’s always saying “hello” and shit ... several times a day. plus, she keeps coming by and wants to engage me in long conversations about her life and about her kids who keep screwing her over. what the fuck? do i look like a fucking therapist to you lady?

and why can’t i get up to go to the restroom without someone already being in it??? the restrooms at work are single rooms so only one person can be in it at a time. i fucking HATE how i have to walk WAY THE FUCK over there just to have to walk way the fuck back. i mean FUCK! my cube is all the way out in bumblefuck...that’s way too far for my lazy ass. why can’t they put the restrooms closer?? and then whenever it’s finally free it smells like the nastiest shit ever. what the fuck do these people EAT?

i’m really not that pissed off right now but i’m annoyed as hell. it’s only tuesday and already i want to get the fuck out of here.

.:What I'm Listening To:.

Electric Skychurch: Together. relaxing electronica, all downtempo. it’s really just the same song over and over again but with some variation. decent album but nothing too special here.

R.Crumb and His Cheap Suit Serenaders: Singing in the Bathtub. old time nostalgia type music from the twenties era. r.crumb is a famous comic book artist from the sixties who does this as his hobby but he never performs anymore. this shit isn’t for anyone who doesn’t know the genre but i like it.

Death Cab for Cutie: The Photo Album. this is some good shit. i admit that ben gibbard can sound whiney at times but he writes good hooks. plus, most the time i think his voice is soothing. some of the songs of this album just do it for me...you know?

.:What I'm Reading:.

Stiff. this is some funny shit. it’s all about cadavers and what happens to them. i’m only a few chapters into it but i’ve already learned about decapitated cadavers used to practice face lifts, the history of nineteenth century body snatching, and exactly how the body decomposes. it’s sounds like some nasty shit but mary roach somehow makes it all light-hearted. i don’t want to donate my body to science now...fuck.

...

tonight i’m going to go see a concert in the park. WOOT! WOOT! i *HEART* concerts in the park...especially when the weather is nice like this. i think i’m going to wear this shirt i got with a monkey on it. it’s soooooo cute. cute as all fuck. uhm. yeah. anyway, i have to get back to work now.

damn.

is it friday yet?

[i won't join in the procession that's speaking their peace.
using five dollar words while praising his integrity..]

Friendly Neighborhood Moment

2005-06-13T11:23:00.000-06:00

I’ve been in my house for about a year and up until recently, contact with my neighbors had been extremely minimal. I had waved to them, said “hello” in passing, and even nodded in their direction while mowing my lawn. That’s really all I felt was required of me. It’s a lot of work to stop and get to know a complete stranger. Sure it starts all innocent but next thing you know they’re expecting you to pick up their mail while on vacation or to notify the police if you see them being shot at. Bah! Who do they think I am, some kind of magical helper monkey?

But in all actuality, it pays to have good neighbors. Last week, one of my neighbors saw me struggling with my sprinkler system and decided to trot on over to help me fix it. Despite the fact I hadn’t spoken more than three words to him ever before, he seemed very eager to help me. When neither of us could figure out the problem, I told him that I’d just call a friend and not to worry about it. I moved on to another project (changing the pads on my swamp cooler). Next thing I know, my neighbor is yelling up at me while I’m on the roof. I walk to the edge, peer down and see that he has invited yet another neighbor to work on the problem. Suddenly they’re suctioning debris out of my pipe and fixing the valve. Boom, my sprinklers come on. Problem solved. How nice is that? So now I’m going to help one of them install some software on his computer. We figure it’s a good exchange of favors, since he’s computer illiterate and I’m pretty much house-maintenance illiterate.

Plus, I found out all kinds of interesting things about my block: how three houses had recently been repossessed; how our former neighbors across the street were busted for having a meth lab in the basement and carted off to prison. Suddenly the neighborhood became a lot more interesting.

Mr. Rogers was right, all along.

Two Wonderful Things

2005-06-08T17:16:00.000-06:00

This post is nothing but links.

#1. Radiohead performed by a bluegrass band. A friend (wilkesyachtingco) sent me this. I'm a big fan of Radiohead and also like the occasional bluegrass song. But mixed together? Pure comedic bliss.

#2. The Ad Guy Starter Kit. I bet I wouldn't have ignored my advertising degree and pursued graphic design if I had heard about this. I'm so going to order one.

Have you found anything wonderful on the internet lately? If so, please post it in the comments section.

House Guest

2005-06-06T11:29:00.000-06:00

Months and months ago I wrote about freaks and how I missed their company. My reasoning was their weirdness adds a little spice to life, that they provide instant entertainment and a welcome diversion from the normalcy of everyday living. I am a big dumb idiot.

Ladies and gentlemen, a freak is living in my house and I want him to go away. This unhappy situation didn’t come about by me wandering the streets in search of some weirdo to entertain me, like I had previously planned. If that was the case, I could easily get rid of said freak with little or no guilt. No, this is situation is a product of my own idealism. If I didn’t care a spit about helping people in need, then I wouldn’t have this problem.

I know this guy from church. Lets just call him “Shmames.” Shmames sits in the back of Sunday School and provides long answers to simple questions that usually end in him reminding us all about how he knows more about everything than anyone else. On a few occasions he’s cornered me and began recounting his life story. The problem is, Shmames doesn’t understand the concept of transitions. People with regular social skills might began a conversation like this:

“Hey Jeremy. How’s it going?” Banter ensues, then: “...Speaking of people with credit card debt, I’ve had a hard time with that myself....”

Instead, James...err.. I mean Shmames, would approach the conversation like this:

“Hi Jeremy. I’m going through bankruptcy. I used to have a 60k a year job and now I have nothing and I can’t hold a decent job and I work at McDonalds despite having three Bachelor’s degrees. I’m now living in my car.”

“Good afternoon to you as well,” I would say.

Shmames gets to the root of what he wants to say and doesn’t bother with transitions or pleasantries. And the root of what he wants to say is usually an incredibly long monologue about the unfortunate and often too-intimate circumstances of his life.

But I admit I feel sorry the guy. He just can’t seem to get things together. I mean who wants to live out of a car? That’s just so sad to me. So when he asked if he could stay at my house for a few days until he got his pay check, I agreed.

Now Shmames and I are going on day four and if he doesn’t leave today I think I’m going to lose it. Shmames likes to approach me and immediately begin babbling on about horribly inane things that make me wish I had Alzheimer’s. For the first few minutes, I’ll feign interest. He’ll blather away and I’ll nod and say “mmm, okay, uh-huh,” etc. Then, when I can no longer stand it, I’ll try to interject and with phrases like, “How interesting. Well, I’ve got to take care of this thing, so...” and then he says, “Oh okay. But you know...blah blah blah” and keeps at it. So I look away and stop paying attention and he still doesn’t take the hint. Then I get up and leave, and he FOLLOWS ME. He’ll be at me heels, yakking away as I take out the garbage, do the dishes, watch television. Once he even followed me into my bedroom and kept talking as I began to change my clothes. I had to shoo him out and close the door before he finally got the hint.

What I really want to say to him is: “Shmames, shut the f*** up!”

But I suffer from my own social malady of sorts. I have “nice guy” syndrome. I’d rather put up with his banter than to have him stare at me like an injured puppy. The best solution is for him to leave, go away, never return! And it better happen today, or at the very least tomorrow. He’ll be back to living in his car, for sure, since he figured out his McDonald’s paycheck won’t cover his living expenses. I wish I could do more for him, but everyone has their limits.

Perhaps it isn’t very charitable to be selective in who we choose to help. For instance, if Shmames was a cool guy and a good conversationalists, I wouldn’t have a problem at all with him crashing for weeks at a time. But Shmames is what he is: a nut job. So he’s getting the boot. I can take no more. I’m wiping my hands.

Nevada Road Trip

2005-06-03T09:50:00.000-06:00

Photos from my business trip to Nevada

Some highlights:

FLY GEYSER.
The colors are sublime -- oranges and greens and browns, hot, glittering pools. Nothing has been done to sharpen/brighten the colors in these photos. This is the actual color. Looks painted, no? It's in the black rock desert in the middle of nowhere; privately owned so we had to track down the caretaker in a diner in this tiny tiny, po-dunk town. He was an interesting guy: part-time cattle driver, part-time pilot. He jokingly told us he wouldn't let us in unless we were Republican. I lied to him. The geyser is always on -- shooting out streams of water constantly, like a little fountain. The water spills off pocky sides into little pools, glittering all pretty-like against the sunlight. It was "discovered" in the 60s when some people hit a geothermic pocket drilling for water. Then it just formed on its own.

BASQUE FOOD.
Ah, the basque. They settled Nevada way back when and have a big presence in cities like Elko. They're big sheep herders, those basque, so there was a lot of sheep on the menu. My opinion of them as a people considerably improved, having met Basques before that were mostly grumpy and irritable. I figured it had something to do with them not being able to figure out if they are Spanish or French.

INDIAN RESERVATIONS.
There were Indians. EVERYWHERE.

WILD HORSE RESERVOIR.
Oooh, pretty. The kind of place that makes you think, am I still in Nevada? We didn't see any wild horses though. Just deer, and cows, and lizards. Also we saw a bald eagle up close. I was so going to murder it and mount it on my wall.

BLACK ROCK DESERT.
This place was cool. Unlike most of the state, there is no vegetation, just flat, salty ground stretching white into the horizon. The Burning Man festival takes place there in the fall....you know, that bizarre, naked gathering of neo-hippies up to no good. It's a good location for it, seeing as they can't possibly be bothering anybody, out there in the middle of nowhere. Still, the caretaker for Fly Geyser loathes the whole thing -- says they're messy and loud. Plus, I doubt many are Republican.

SPIRIT CAVES.
They found a 10,000 year-old skeleton in these caves. Sparked a huge controversy between the local Indians and scientists. Some wanted to study the bones, some wanted to bury them again. Plus, some crazy people have come up with a few interesting theories based on the fact there is evidence the bones have a Caucasian origin. Google it.

RENO.
Crazy, freaky people live there. I was secretly hoping I would run into the cast of RENO 911. No luck.

CARSON CITY.
Hours of meetings with the state historian. Lots of trees. Didn't make it to Lake Tahoe, thanks to blabbing archivists. Cried myself to sleep.

HIGHWAY 50.
We took this road on the way back. It's called the "Lonliest Highway in America," but in truth it really isn't that lonely. I've seen lonlier roads. MUCH lonlier. This one, eh, a little backwards maybe but still has its fair share of visitors. All the stopping along the way caused us to miss the Great Basin National Park. Damn those delicious smoothies.

SHOE TREE.
Oh my gosh, WTF? We're driving down the lonely highway and all of a sudden there's this big tree covered in hundreds and hundreds of shoes! (see photos). I was tempted to leave mine there but then I realized I needed them for wearing.

Overall a great trip. Lots and lots of driving and and work but mostly a lot of great sight-seeing. Also, I ran over a bunny. I was going 90 mph and it just appeared in the middle of the road, blinded by my headlights. It would not move and then CLUNK-CLUNK, I squished its little head. Sorry Grace, I'm a bunny killer.

The End.

Living All Retired-Like

2005-05-31T13:17:00.000-06:00

If I haven't been updating lately, blame the elderly. This is a good rule of thumb in general when anything goes wrong. It just so happens that in this case it really is the fault of the elderly. As soon as I returned from Nevada, I had a week of reunions with my grandparents and various relatives. My grandfather has 11 siblings, which makes for a lot of great-aunts and great-uncles within an inch of dying. You know it's a party when the guests arrive with oxygen tanks in tow. And then, keeping with the spirit of Memorial Day, we visited cemetery after cemetery, spreading flowers and glee. We did this for 5 days. Chatting, eating, sleeping, kicking it in graveyards... Life moved very slowly, as if I had entered some bizarre sci-fi time-slowing anomaly. But I'm not complaining. I was well fed, relaxed and honestly, scrubbing bird poop off the headstones of dead relatives can make you feel a strange connection to them. I had a good time with the old folks. And they didn't even harass me about getting married (much.) In fact, upon seeing the interior of my house, one great aunt said, "Oh, you don't need a wife. She'll just mess up the place." EXACTLY.

Bad birds!

Hot Desert Action

2005-05-18T13:17:00.000-06:00

It's true that my posts haven't been of a very high caliber lately, and this post will be no exception. But I figured I should post SOMETHING, since I'll be out of the state until next week and won't get another chance. "Out of the state" must be interpreted in its most minimal sense, since I'll really just be in a bordering state, Nevada. Now if I was going a couple states over to say, Oregon, then I'd be all like: oh my gosh, wow!

But I'm not.

Sure Nevada seems mostly like old, rotting flesh on the belly of the Earth where people go to gamble and test nuclear weapons, but I've recently learned it's much more interesting than we give it credit. I'm currently designing a book on Nevada history and my visit there will be my first official business trip. I'll be accompanied by the editor and photo researcher of the book and we'll be photographing plant life, wild horses, ghost towns, geysers, historical sites, and doing some other research. This is exciting to me, despite the fact I'll be traveling with two older women who likely will only be interested in discussing such topics as knitting and how to wind a pace maker.

I joke. They are fun people and it should be a fun trip. Expect a post all about it when I return. That's IF I return. I might just find I really like it there and take up permanent residence. I'll survive by mooching off the hippies at Burning Man and eating delicious cactus. There are also lots of fossils I hear. I could probably eat those, too. It's a regular smorgesborg, out there in Nevada.

Arches

2005-05-10T00:17:00.000-06:00

I spent the weekend photographing rocks. Hundreds and hundreds of rocks.

If you haven't been to Arches National Park, you should go. If you don't, you are swine. Why? For one thing, it is most freakishly sublime experience you are likely to have short of discovering religion or listening to really good Trance. It is hauntingly beautiful, and not in the scary "Cirque du Soleil" sense. Rather, it really makes you think: what in tarnations was Nature ON when it worked up this place?! Probably LSD.

Everything is red there: the hundreds of twisted, stone arches, the rocky canyon walls, the gritty, beach-like sand. If Martians were to crash-land in the middle of the park, they'd take a look around and think, "Boring! Been there, done that." Then they'd fix their space ship and fly back home. We'd better pray the Martians stay away from Arches if we want to benefit financially from their tourism.

It was totally worth the 5 hour drive from my home in Northern Utah. I met up with my french friend, Pierre, who makes an annual trip to the United States to satisfy his uncanny obsession with the desert. He is an amateur photographer with really expensive equipment which made my brand-new digital camera look like rotting feces. Still, as I learned from our early, early morning photo shoots, it's the lighting that matters. I was able to take some amazing photos, which you can see by clicking here. If you don't click on the link, it's probably because you enjoy murdering small children. Nothing else makes sense.

Staring Has Never Been More Fun

2005-05-01T20:15:00.000-06:00

Just when I thought that I had run out of ways to waste my life away, I found "The Stare Game." If you've ever played this game in real life, you know how wonderfully pointless it is. You stare at another person until one of you blinks and, consequently, loses. This version is mildly diverting, but still flawed. For one thing, it requires the presence of another person for it to work. Well, now you can play it against a non-living, badly drawn representation of an actual person. Thanks to the internet stare game, my weekends are booked for months to come. Thank you, Mr. Internet.