ER

I like emergency rooms. At face value I probably shouldn't. We think of them as traumatic, scary, violent environments. They take watch over the criminals and the victims, the sick, the hurt and the poor. Ugliness. But when you get pass the common areas you enter into a place where you are cared for by people who have given over their lives to help those who are experiencing their worse. And this is where you enter a weird kind of peace you can't find anywhere else.
I received the classic "cliche" phone call no parent wants to hear. "This is Officer Ward do you know where your daughter is?." I wanted him to stop. I heard more, things like.... unconscious, side of a road, ambulance, hospital. I left my late night job and drove to St. Vincents. (All hospitals should be named after saints.) I had to wait before I could see her. I waited while they cared for her. The gravel was washed from her face and the vomit from her hair. I was not treated by the doctors and nurses like the parent who could not control her child and when I walked into her ER room I did not see the teenage girl who made some very poor choices. I saw my little girl asleep under stark white sheets and wrapped in a white heated blanket. Her head on a pillow and her long blond hair smoothed and out of the way.
The room was spotless and silent and I received unconditional respect from the staff. They let me sit for awhile. Questions were later answered and details taken care of. The admittance person brought up my daughters last visit to this very same ER. We brought her in at 1:00am, a four year old little girl with a raging fever that brought on seizures and dehydration. I was nine months pregnant with her sister. I laid my head on her gurney and slept while the IV fluids worked their magic and stabilized this child and we brought her home.
Now it is 1:00am twelve years later. Again I lay my head on her gurney and sleep a little while the IV fluids work their magic. The doctor checks in, the nurses come and go. They care for her unconditionally and clean up more vomit and give her more fluids. They bring me a pillow and warm blankets and assure me that this will pass and we will all be alright. They remind me that we have all done this, she is not the first teen to drink too much and there is no shortage of them in the ER.
I doze. The room is silent except for some white noise from hospital monitors. And there is a peace in the room.

Bonneville...Send me on my way.

Suitcase packed, IPOD carefully loaded, a few bucks in my pocket and J is driving me to the train station. (have i mentioned that I love trains) I fight back tears. Check in at the train station, more tears. Good-byes are hard on a girl when she is saying them to the one she loves. I am on my my to the Bonneville Salt Flats. The Holy Ground of Speed. It is motorcycle speed week and I am catching up to my friend Tara in southern Oregon and traveling with her family.
I board the train and desperately try to find a seat facing forward. Sitting backwards is not good for me when motion is involved. The only seat left is part of a foursome of seats that I will be sharing with an elderly couple. I sit and we argue about which way is forward and which way is north, south, east and west. They sit facing me and assume they are going forward. Apparently I won and they were in the wrong car and Mister Conductor made them move. They were replaced with a mother and son couple. She was a bartender and he a student in his twenties. They had the look that life had never been easy but excepted it and were none the less happy.
The son, a very cool young man was messing with the group next to us. A group of young teens and a mom coming back from a gamer convention in Seattle. Yep, Geeks. They so wanted to be excepted by this hipster stanger on the train and enjoyed any kind of shit he was feeding them. It was very fun to watch. I stared out the window and laughed and talked and drank a smuggled beer my seat mates shared with me and before I wanted it to end it did and I was getting off the train in Eugene.
I was met by Tara and we hugged and laughed and stuffed my suitcase into her little yellow Mini Cooper. After a mad dash through the grocery store (we needed some road snacks) we drove on to Roseburg. I slept fast, only about 45 minutes. We had to meet her family at 2:00am. That was departure time. Wide awake with the excitement of a road trip in front of us we arrived at her parents house. We threw our suitcases in the back of a big ass mother f*cking bright red king cab pick-up truck towing a trailered Turbo Hayabusa that driven correctly could reach speeds close to 200 mph. It was dark and cold and once situated in the back seat of the truck surrounded by pillows and blankets I immediately fell asleep. I woke up just long enough to watch the sun come up over the Eastern Southern Oregon mountains. Brian drove in silence and everyone else was asleep. I was careful not wake anyone and selfishly enjoyed the sunrise to myself while I listened to Jesse DeNatale on my IPOD. I drifted back to sleep happy knowing this day was ahead of me.
We drove I-5 through Grants Pass and cut over to Medford and Klamath Falls. Somewhere in there we stopped at a Black Bear Diner and started my day with a bowl of oatmeal. Heading east we left Klamath Falls towards Lake City. Klamath Falls is an "end of the world as we know it" kind of town. Everything to the east from here is desolate and odd. Leaving Lake City (the Labor Day Rodeo was going on) there are miles and miles of two lane highways. The land is hilly and brown and empty. We see an occasional group of buildings and homes, not big enough to call a town, maybe a gas station, wild burros, antelope, wild horses and blue sky. Lots of blue sky. We drive through hours of this with pleasant conversation, good music and occasional cat naps. In the truck is Tara and myself, her dad and mom- Brian and Debbie and Tara's cousin Ron. An occasional stop to stretch, outside the truck it is windy, empty and warm.
We get to I-80 in Nevada still experiencing the same. There are some larger towns and even though they have more people and buildings and businesses they still seem empty. I am not sure why they are here. Maybe it was a spring of fresh water or a creek crossing or perhaps a wagon broke down and they decided to make a town. The people we encounter seem empty and wind blown. I am not sure why they stay, maybe they are trapped or perhaps they don't understand that they can leave and there are other options. We on the other hand are not trapped, awake and alive and just trying to get to Wendover Nevada/Bonneville Salt Flats.
Along I-80 ahead of us we see a bunch of lit up police cars with a truck pulled over. Getting closer we see the cops have their guns pulled on two men with their arms in the air. Brian said that guy is going to run!!! "No way" we say...but he did. He ran. Shots were fired and that man darted right into traffic. He ran into a van that was driving slightly behind us, jumped back up and kept running. All traffic came to a stop and we were the last vehicle to get past for I am sure several hours because now they have a crime scene on their hands. We watched for as long as we could see and made up stories about what we thought really happened. Made it to Wendover Nevada around 7:00pm that night.

Joe Strummer

I have a dog. He is really a puppy but has become the size of a dog. This is difficult for both of us. He is in a dogs body but does not know what is expected of a dog, and only understands how to be a puppy. As a result he can't figure out why he is not always making me happy. This can get a little frustrating for both of us.
He was named after the late great Joe Strummer of the Clash and the Mescaleros. I think it is important to give a dog a name they have to live up to. Dogs need inspiration. I also appreciate and respect the positive side of a bit of rebellion and I am sure this Joe Strummer will live up to that. The original Joe Strummer played a 1966 Fender Telecaster that originally came in a three color sunburst with a white pickguard. After joining the Clash the guitars body and pickguard was refinished in black auto primer, by 1979 the word NOISE was stenciled on the upper part of the body. I am sure if my Joe Strummer had thumbs he would also play this same style Telecaster.
Strummer is a happy dog, Oh so happy, devoted to his family and full of kisses. His feelings are easily hurt when he doesn't get it right but Strummer bounces back quickly, he is curious but fearful of things he does not understand. He is growing, tall and skinny, loosing baby teeth and has an amazing irresistible coat. Long and lean I am sure some day he will have the moves of a graceful ninja but right now he is very clumsy, tripping, slipping and falling and getting tangled in things.
We have a morning routine Strummer and I. He goes from room to room and wakes the house. People have places to be. We get everyone out the door and take and extended walk around the block to make sure all is right in the neighborhood. Strummer pulls, I correct...Strummer pulls I correct...Strummer pulls I correct. This goes on. We run a little. Eventually he gets tired of pulling and decides he wants to carry his own leash. This is fun except it is taking its tole on our leashes. He likes to walk with things in his mouth. Joe strummer will pick up a leaf and carry it. One morning he picked up an apple half way through our walk and carried it home.
To save the leashes I started walking with his rope toy in my pocket. I decided it would be good to bring something for him to carry. On our morning walk Strummer started playing and leaping and looking for a good spot on the lead to grab hold. When he thought my hand was the place I decided to break out his toy. He carried it for awhile and dropped it. I looked down to pick up the rope and woke up a little when I realized it was covered in blood. I reached down to pick it up and was even more surprised when I saw that my hand was covered in blood. Not just a few smudges but full on covered in blood slasher movie style. I checked the dog. The dog was fine. I assumed he lost a tooth (they can bleed a lot from that) or bit his tongue and when he had his mouth around my hand it came off on me.
It would not have been a big deal only that I was left with the dilemma of what to do with a bloody hand. Dog blood none the less. I did not want to wipe it on my clothes. I had no choice but to continue on and hope I did not cross paths with anyone. I am sure it would have at the very least raised a few eyebrows.
I love him dearly but dogs are gross.

Union Station and Train Girl

In Old Town Portland sits Portland's train station, Union Station. Union Station was built in 1896. It was considered to be the finest rail station west of St. Louis and the hub of the northwest railways. It is built of sandstone and brick in the Italian Renaissance style With a 150 foot clock tower that stands over the three story building. Later a neon "Go By Train" sign was added which has since become a Portland icon. Inside the walls are of marble and art deco light fixtures hang from the three+ story high ornate ceiling. Sun light shines in from the 2nd and third story windows putting on an amazing dance of light on the marble. One hundred years later in 1996 the train station took on renovation that brought it back to its wonder years. The original wooden seats, fixtures and light up signage were kept in place. Stepping into Union Station is like stepping into a gauzy World War II movie scene.
Passengers waiting for their train to board sit and stand by their worn leather luggage, poised in their travel clothes and various military uniforms. A young man and woman stand on the platform in the mist. She in a charcoal gray pencil skirt, pink cardigan sweater and high heeled pumps and he his bell bottomed sailor uniform. They are having one last embrace before he boards the train and heads off to war. They tear apart from each other as they hear "all aboard, last call...", the train pulls out and she chases it for a few minutes crying I love you. The train leaves her behind and she is left to her sobs and tears and the uncertainty of their future and the future of our country and world.
However, the reality of people talking on cell phones and using laptops keep me spending too much time in the day dream I have stepped into. Too bad the train station couldn't be a reality free zone and leave me to over romanticising this form of travel.
This is where my 48 hour train adventure started. I convinced my children plus one that this would be a great way to travel and get to Grand Junction Colorado where I would have a tearful reunion with my own soldier. There is a bench against the brick wall outside the entrance under the Union Station, Portland Oregon sign. I am sure everyone starting a vacation at this train station gets their picture taken under this sign. We did of course as well. Sitting in the middle of the bench all by himself was a little boy. He appeared to be around seven years of age and out of a modern day Oliver Twist story. I don't believe he spoke much English and we could not ask him to move so we sat around him and included him in our group photo. From then on we referred to him as "Train Boy". Train Boy did have a dad, we saw them together later on our train and he provided entertainment as we had Train Boy sightings and made up Train Boy stories.
Inside the station we met "Mr. Conductor" and checked in and then waited. You do a lot of the waiting part when traveling by train. Hours and hours of waiting. they never leave on time and then once you are moving you will wait more and sometimes wait in the middle of nowhere. It turns out that Amtrak leases the lines from freight companies and the freight trains have the right of way. Frequently you will stop, sometimes for a few minutes and sometimes for hours while a freight train works its way around you.
Waiting in the station to be called "all aboard" we discovered "Train Girl". Train Girl looked like she just stepped out of the before mentioned movie. She was sitting with perfect posture, long legs crossed in a chair reading a book. Dressed in a black pencil skirt, soft yellow sweater, a red scarf tied around her neck and a pair of vintage white pumps helped to show off her long legs. Train Girl's makeup was flawless, a soft matte finish and bright red lipstick. Her hair was pulled back into kind of a partial French twist. Sitting at her feet was a vintage round leather suitcase and a big floppy hat rested on top of it. In her lap was a bright red clutch purse. She was amazing. We all wanted to be her.
After boarding our train, the Coast Starlight, (doesn't that sound romantic?) we situated ourselves. Figured out who was sitting with who, organized our luggage and other things. We had enough food for five people traveling for two days, cooler, blankets, pillows, games and music. Amtrak does not provide much if you are traveling coach class. We tested our seats to see how far they would recline and how comfortable the foot rests were. We got used to the steady hard swaying of the train and the noises it made. Then it was time to explore and spy on Train Girl. We pretended to take pictures of each other so we could get her in the back ground. We followed her into the lounge car and the movie car and made up stories about who she was and where she was going. She was always looked wonderful. We are not completely crazy stalkers had fun on our own. Reading, games, napping,day dreaming and wandering through the cars. We watched "Because of Winn Dixie" in the movie car. Who wouldn't love to see Dave Matthews singing barefoot to the animals. We slept.
The next morning we caught up with Train Girl again. She was still completely put together. Wearing a new outfit of the same quality, no wrinkles, hair done and makeup applied. She looked fresh and well rested. Somehow she was able to pull this off effortlessly. Later we saw her sitting in an observation car having an intense conversation with an exotic looking gentleman. I am sure it was some deep philosophic conversation or they were solving the world's problems. We parted ways half way to our destination in San Francisco. She stayed on the train headed south for Los Angeles, or Mexico, or maybe even Argentina. We never talked to her. I supposed we didn't want to risk a chance of ruining our idea of who we wanted her to be. We got off the train and waited for another heading east, one that would get us to Colorado. The California Zephyr.

In the night

There is a time of night not many get to experience. It is my favorite. It is reserved for people with twisted clocks like mine. It doesn't last very long. There are just a few fleeting minutes when you catch the night at just this time. It happens after the bars and restaurants have closed and the patrons and the crazies of these places have made it into cabs and other places and off the streets. It is not yet the middle of the night. That comes later when it is more eerily quiet and cold and lonely. This time of the night does not have a name yet but could really use one. The "wee hours" is too silly, "middle of the night" sounds lonely and sad, the "midnight hours" might work but it really doesn't seem capture it. It needs a name. Maybe I will have a contest and offer a free twix bar to whoever wins.
Not many get to experience this time of the night. It is quiet. Cabs shoot by. The hustle is off the streets and the buildings have time to take a deep breath and acknowledge each other. They acknowledge me and I get a little building spiritual head nod as I walk past. You can feel the city letting out a sigh...kicking back on it's couch and putting it's feet up on it's coffee table. If it could the city would take the top off a beer and maybe light a cigarette. For some reason it is usually drizzling at this time of night and if it is not it should be. That just adds to the flavor.

Those of us out at this time of night share similar stories. We've moved the last straggling customers out of the building. Garbage has been taken to the street, floors mopped, areas restocked and ready for tomorrow. Tips counted and shared, stories and complaints from the night unburdened.
I step out into the night of Portland. Walk past the ghost bike. Lights reflect and twinkle from the water on the street. I stand up tall and take a big breath of night air. My head held high and I feel the drizzle on my face. I am wide awake and not in a hurry. I have a chance to have my friend Portland to myself. I walk past a covered door way and see two bartenders from where I work sharing hits off a pipe. We communicate with a head nod and a smile. A man walks past me still wearing his chef pants. His white coat hanging below his winter coat. A head nod. I round the corner and two individuals are loading garbage bags into a dumpster. In the window of a local spot a few of the employees are gathered around the closed bar sharing an end of the evening drink. I get into my car and drive home.

I like teenagers

I had the privilege of being in a local high school the other day. This happened to be at a time when classes were changing. A big high school. The kind with 2000 kids plus. I had a great observation point at a major intersection. I was reminded that just like snowflakes, no two teens are alike. Several factors affect snowflake and teenager formation. Temperature, air currents, humidity, dirt and dust particles all influence shape and size and affect crystal weight and durability. It is also true for teens. Dirt and dust particles make the snowflake heavier, and can cause cracks and breaks in the crystal and make it easier to melt. This also affects their durability. Snowflake formation is a dynamic process. A snowflake may encounter many different environmental conditions, sometimes melting it, sometimes causing growth, always changing its structure. A broken, melted teenager is a sad thing.
I like the diversity at this school. All the ethnicities and socioeconomic groups are adequately represented. There are so many cliques that it makes it hard to be a loner and everybody is so different that nobody seems to care if you are a little weird because it seem everybody is. It has the traditional cliques and more...the preps, skaters, goths, jocks, emos, freaks and the band geeks. But it goes deeper than this. Amongst these groups/cliques there are 1000s of individual snowflakes. The lowly freshmen boys for example. The lowest common denominator at a high school. Poor freshmen boys, they don't know how to dress, they are short, skinny, awkward in every way and picked on by everyone. Even each other. Yet even among this faction they are all different. We don't know what went on in their house this morning before they walked out the door. What music did they listen to? What movies, video games and culture influence who they are. Do they have their own warm room with a down comforter or do they step around their mom passed out drunk on the kitchen floor from the night before, while they gather some breakfast. Are they responsible for their siblings because one or both parents are missing or do they have an extended network of support consisting of parents, aunts and uncles and grandparents. These environmental conditions can cause growth, durability or melt making each one a different, intricate individual.
Everyone should take a few moments to observe teenagers. You would learn that we, our planet, are going to be OK. This generation will overcome, rise above and I strongly believe, kick some ass. You may see them playing hard but you probably don't realize how hard they work. How serious they take their station in life and the burdens they bare. They are proud, confident generation and figuring out that they are being handed a lot of shit and understand they will be the ones that have to fix it. I think they are up for this challenge. Even the broken, melted ones.

2008

Looking forward to this year.
Things seem to be lining up in our favor.
"They say working is best because poverty is hell on a man". Not sure who "they" is but I do understand. We are both starting the year with new employment. J switched directions and took on a new career. He is now working for a grown-up company considered to be one of the top 10 places in Portland to be employed. I am helping a start up company get off the ground and working security at a local concert venue. Crazy but hopefully will provide me with some interesting things to talk about.
The girls are all a year older and doing what they are supposed to be doing. Mostly. Jack the dog continues to provide all of us with entertainment and love. We have some adventures planned for the year. In places where they don't speak English and roads are still unpaved.

And we are ending 2007 on a great note. Numerous gatherings and parties and chances to connect with old and current friends. Friends from afar coming in and out of town. A friend's wedding to tie it all together. Too much good food and an iron chef competition is happening at our house before the end of the year. Christmas was nice. Added bonus on Christmas Day. We were watching It's a Wonderful Life. The scene at the end when George Baily finally figures it out. He is running through the streets and the snow is coming down, hard. It started snowing at that point for us. I don't think it has snowed on Christmas Day in Portland for 18 years. It was lovely.
I think I will like 2008.

Bouncer School

A few weeks ago I had to take a day long class I refer to as "Bouncer School" or "8 hours of my life I will never get back". It really has nothing to do with the new job I am starting at the Crystal as a security person/bouncer. It is a ridiculous licence that the state of Oregon makes you get. Kiss my ass Oregon. The licensing part of it would not be bad, the problem is that they lump all security positions together. The class only covers one section of this broad position. Store security guards. If I ever want to catch shoplifters at Walmart I am golden. However this will never happen. Because first of all it would require me to set foot in a Walmart and I can't see myself doing that. In fact no one in my bouncer class wants to do that either. My class consisted of two professional body guards, a strip club bouncer and 2 others like me who just want to work at the Crystal in hopes we can hear some fun music and make a little money.
We had an hour lunch break and I had big plans of going to my car and taking a nap. I only had four hours of sleep the night before. I was a little hungover and crabby. Heading out I was stopped by a fellow bouncer school attendee. He was 6'4, 300 pounds and red hair with a mullet down to his waist. He invited me to go across the street and have lunch at the deli. I did not want to be that snotty girl that is above it all so I said sure. Besides you never know when you are going to need a 300 pound red headed body guard in your corner. Someday it might be good to be able to pull that out of your pocket. The deli we went to is really one of those bars where people play video poker and keno. I had never been in such a place. This was a whole new world for me. At what point when I left my home did I cross the state line and end up in Reno. How this happened I do not know but sure enough, there I was. Reno. At 11:30 in the morning there was a guy at the bar too drunk to be served. Women were sitting at video poker machines with pitchers of beer while they argued on their cell phones with their children. I ate my BLT and made conversation with my new body guard friend. Please don't ask me to play pool. He did.
I finished the class, passed my test 49 out of 50. I was finger printed twice, had my criminal background paperwork notarized and now I am officially licensed to ask you to play nice at the Crystal.

Athens Greece, not Athens Georgia

To excited to be tired, lacking in sleep but my senses were heightened. The smells were more distinct, I was seeing things in technicolor and hearing in surround sound. The sounds were not blended together like they frequently are. They were distinct. Athens is a crazy place. We made our way through the airport and located the subway that would take us across the city. There was a hostel that had a bunk bed waiting with our names on it. We left the safety of the tourist areas and the signs with English translations for a neighborhood with an affordable bed.

I was equipped with some photo copied disjointed maps from a travel book and and address for the Aphrodite Hostel. Climbed the stairs of the subway station for the city above. It had just finished storming. This working class neighborhood I was in felt gritty. It had the feel of a black and white movie from decades ago. A kind of artsy movie that only plays at small theatres and comes with subtitles. This was where Jesus and Peter and Paul and the others had walked 1000s of years before and you could still feel the dust of their foot prints mixed up and swirling with the dust and rain of today. I stepped carefully, not wanting to step on the wrong pebble for fear it could be considered an artifact.

The street signs were written in Greek characters. Our maps were in English letters. Instantly I noticed the weight of my backpack. Stopped a few people and pointed at my map and my address and received smiles and shoulder shrugs. Got yelled at by a hotel owner for bothering him when I had no intention of staying there. Ran into a girl with a back pack, she was American. Yeah, a new friend. "Where are you going?", "The Aristotle Hostel", "No way, so are we", we walked together and made small talk. Three blocks later I realized... I am going to the Aphrodite's not Aristotle. Oops, oh well. "Goodbye".

The neighborhood was made of tall skinny buildings that held apartments and funky little shops on the bottom levels. The store fronts consisted of big open garage type doors. Sounds of people arguing, talking and laughing came from these places. Motorcycles were everywhere and cars parked on sidewalks. People were cooking dinner. I had been in hallways wider then these streets. Things were still dripping with the rain that had recently stopped. It was warm. We found the Aphrodite. Gave them some cash and were issued a set of sheets and a key which also let us turn on the lights in our little room on the 5th floor. The elevator was old school. Big heavy metal doors that you opened and closed yourself. The room was bare. It consisted of a wooden table and chair and two sets of bunk beds. The beds were naked except for a folded blanket at the end of each. Dropped my stuff and left.

In the basement of this building was a bar of sorts. Small, tiny, dark. It was in an industrial looking kind of cage. There was a bar across one end that fit maybe three bar stools and a spot or two to stand. A bench along one side that had a couple of tiny tables. In the back was a large table that was made for maybe eight people. This was all there was room for. At the large table a group of ten or twelve playing quarters. They were from all over the world speaking different languages. Somehow the universal language of drinking games brings us all together. Smiling, laughing, slamming, clinking glasses. It was wonderful. Everyone in this closet size room was smoking. It was hard to see with the poor lighting and cloud of heavy smoke. The quarter playing group resembled that barroom scene in the original Starwars. The bar that Han Solo and Chewbacca show up at on the strange planet that is full of all the crazy aliens. That is what it felt like. Ordered a beer and along with it was handed a shot of ouzo. I forgot about the ouzo. Greece's national drink. It was served in a plastic shot glass lined with blinking LED lights. Not sure what to do with it I slammed it. Later I found out this was wrong. It is an aperitif meant to be sipped slowly. Now I felt warm and a little crazed from being awake for over 24 hours. The room was spinning. Left the basement bar and and headed out on the streets. Now for some food and some fresh air.....I'll plenty of time to sleep when I'm dead.

Random thoughts today.

It is a pink flowered rain boots kind of day. I wish I had an umbrella to match.

The post office annoys me. I like the concept. Think it is amazing. A person can put a cute little sticker on the corner of a package or an envelope and some how that package gets to where ever you want it to go. It is really pretty amazing. That address can be anywhere in the world and your package will get there. Even a grass hut in Bangladesh. But the post office people annoy me. They must post that in their job description. Do not apply if you are not annoying.

Crimson misses her best friend Clover. We were kind of cute that night. Don't forget....boys are stupid, babies are worse and you will kick ass in SOUTH AFRICA!

I love Fridays! Happy hour, some live music, a glass of wine or three.

Job interviews are not fun. No matter how much in your mind you think you have gone over every question they could ever possibly ask you, they always have one question that totally knocks you on your ass. My one from yesterday..."When is a time you did not follow directions and what were the results". Job interviews are the adult version of picking sides for a team when you were in elementary school.

Why do base players sing with a base voice?

I can't wait for Thanksgiving!

Cabaret, oh cabaret, oh cabaret

Lemon loves anniversary week. or translate that to...treat me like a princess week.
Thank you.
Breakfast in town at Milo's. The beach, that was nice. Perfectly filled days of sunshine, not getting out of bed until noon, rush to make the 2:00 breakfast cut off, salt water taffy. It was really fun dancing with you at that little bar to that groovy blues band. Funny. I liked our "quaint" hotel room. It was pretty cool how you made it where I could hold the sun up in my hands. I did my best to keep it up a little longer but it did end up sinking into the ocean anyway.

Dinner at LeHappy. For that matter dinner at all my favorite places during anniversary week. LeHappy, Jakes and Masu. I would share a steak with you anyday, rare please. Yes, I am spoiled.

And on Tuesday, that box from the bakery bar. What kind of delectable baked good did you bring me? Wait, what's this...not a baked good. An IPOD! All of my best friends wrapped up in a sweet, neat, little 4GB package encased in shiny blue metal.
Blue like a frozen blue raspberry otter pop on a hot August day. (do you like that little description? I am learning how to write.) Or I could say, blue like the water as it hits the white sand on a Panama City Beach. I could say blue like my bike but hardly anyone would know what that means. Cute how it matches my bike. Don't worry. I will not attempt to ride my bike while using the IPOD. You probably remember that little incident last summer when I was trying to talk to Tara on my phone while riding my bike. I had to break it in at some point. Too bad it was my first time on it.
Wax on! That was for you. But I do admit I am getting a lot of enjoyment out of that experience. I will visit my new friend Jeven again. That night at Jakes, perfect. Lemondrops, martinis and wine. It is fun pretending we are grownups.

And then Cabaret. What a feast. It was fun how you sent me out armed with nothing but a max ticket and a texted address on my cell phone. I was really surprised. It was fun rushing for tickets. You know I secretly want to be Storm Large but I don't think at 5'1" I could ever measure up to her 6' stature.
Dinner at Masu. (Yes, I was the girl that used to pick you up from the airport and take you here.) I loved sitting by the window. Late at night the rain was blowing sideways but we had sexy cocktails and sushi in front of us. What a work of art. And the DJ played on.
Thank you.
But don't think this lets you off the hook. I still expect you to take me to Cuba and the other nine yet to be determined places on my list. You could add Vietnam's Cat Ba Island to the list. Considered to be the 8th wonder of the world. For you, I will continue to smuggle your contraband across international borders.

http://travel.msn.com//Guides/MSNTravelSlideShow.aspx?cp-documentid=380216&imageindex=2

josh ritter

I am a little crazy over Josh Ritter right now. Maybe a little too crazy. I am this close...(if you could see my finger and thumb they are held up about a quarter of an inch apart)...that is how close I am to skipping town and going all Penny Lane on him.
It started on a drive home from Boise. I had seven hours in the car alone. To keep me company J bought a couple of new CDs to listen to. Friends for the road. It was love at first site. I even had to pull over and read the lyrics on the CD jacket so I would know exactly what I was singing along to. I used the repeat button a lot that night.
Then a month later I saw Josh Ritter at the Aladdin in Ptown. That was all it took. Now I am head over heals crazy on Josh. Turns out he looks just like my friend Jason S. His show was amazing. Head tilted back, eyes closed and oh that smile.
He played and sang and told stories and we all sang along. Josh reminded me of Snoopy from the Charlie Brown cartoons when he does his little happy Snoopy dance. I caught that contagious smile and followed it with an occasional giggle. He owned us. Flirting with the crowd, teasing us. He brought us to the edge of our toes while he riffed on his guitar and we waited for that hook to come back around. His band shared his enthusiasm. I was introduced to other songs that weren't on my CD. Girl in the War, Monster Ballads, Wolves and Good Man. This guy is good.
I assumed this was all for us. Just for Portland. Being the obsessed fan that I am I did what anyone else would do. A little internet stalking never hurts. I watched You Tube videos and found FabChannel.com. FabChannel is from the Paradiso in Amsterdam. An Amsterdam equivalent to the Portland Aladdin. Their website streams past concerts. Hundreds to choose from. And a couple from Josh Ritter. Anyway, turns out he is cheating on us. He performs in this manner all over the world not just Portland. That took some getting used to. Guess I have to be OK with sharing him.

the Ride Home

I've always liked the ride home. As far back as I can remember I have liked the ride home. Even as a little girl riding in the back seat while my dad smoked his cigarettes and my mom talked in hushed tones I liked the ride home. Staring out the window and shutting out what was in the front seat I would dream, imagine and fantasize. And when I was really little I would pretend to be sleeping when we arrived home so I could be carried to bed.
As I grew older I moved to the front seat and the person in the driver seat changed. Frequently. Sometimes nightly. I never cared to be the driver. I liked to settle into the seat, quietly. Listen to whatever music this man driving the car was trying to impress me with. Often a little tipsy or some other such thing. I would watch raindrops slide down the window or look at the moon. Stare into swirling snowflakes and stare into peoples lighted windows as we drove past. Depending what I saw I would sometimes pretend to be living their lives for a minute or two. I would remember. Old friends, broken hearts, hearts I broke. Where are they now and who is in their passenger seat at this hour and what are they looking at? I really wasn't even aware of who was next to me.
I would wonder. Would this be the last time I would be riding home with this individual. Would this be the only time. Would I be riding home with him forever. It would frequently annoy me when the individual at hand would try to talk and make me carry on a conversation. Let me be. Let me have my moment. I remember when I became aware of this "riding home phenomenon" that I so much enjoyed. I was only 19 years old. A smile had made its way from my face to one of the boys in the bar. It was closing time and he was taking me home. He was a 38 year old Austrian ski instructor and had saved me his passenger seat for the night. I watched the houses go by. It was cold. A few snowflakes danced in front of his headlights. At the time I was living in a frozen mountain town and at 2:00am it was very cold. Part of me wished I could pretend to be asleep so this man could carry me to bed. I can't remember his name.
This youtube link goes perfect with this posting....

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Bm3lWq4s5-U
"And I'll have you back by break of day
I'm going your way anyway
And if you'd like to come along
I'll be yours for a song
I know you are waiting and I know that it is not for me
But I'm here and I'm ready and I've saved you the passenger seat
I won't be your last dance just your last goodnight"

do not disturb

Recently I was discussing with friends the perils of airline travel. If I am traveling solo I do not like talking to people on airplanes. I don’t want to. This is my space, my time. I will bury my head in a pillow, press my cheek against the window, put on my music, close my eyes and just in case there is any doubt there will be a book on my lap. A sort of visual to remind you that I do not want to be disturbed. One of the dangers of talking to people on airplanes is there is no way to get out of the conversation. It keeps going until you land.
My friend Paul insists the best way to travel international is hung over. It supposedly helps with the jet lag. I think it would also make people avoid you. You would have that air about you. I once was on an international flight returning home when a hungoverish looking man got on the plane at the last possible second. He was wearing a sort of navy mechanics looking jacket. He shlumped into his seat. When the plane took off he reclined his chair and put his jacket over his head and did not remove it until we were landing twelve hours later. It was awesome.
Back in the day, when I was 10, I was certain I would meet the love of my life sitting next to me on an airplane en route to some exotic location. But different dreams that choose me came true and I met the love of my life in a black jeep. No airplanes. He drives fast enough so maybe riding in the passenger seat is kind of like flying.

Screen Door, Portland Oregon

Picked Him up from work tonight. Received a tour of the new digs. Way cool. No, lets make that way, way, way cool. (that is three ways) He scored on that gig. Went to eat at the Screen Door. Which translates to later he gets a tour of me. Yum. Was greeted at the door with the great music. It is weird how the music is paired perfectly with the food on the menu. Specifically what I ordered. Then started again with a great cocktail. I am a sucker for any cocktail with fresh ginger. This one is called the Rhett Butler. Makers Mark, fresh pureed ginger and lemon on ice. Mixed by a bartender who truly cares about your happiness. Yum! so I had to have another. The food, superb. Sweet potato fries. I am an expert on sweet potato fries and hands down the Screen Door serves the best. Watercress salad with roasted beets, a sprinkling of some sort of yummy creamy cheese and a very delicate dressing. Yum! Paired this with ever so slightly spicy grits and shrimp. Yum! He had the nightly special. A something pork with a side of savory bread pudding and an apple compote. Yum. Fell in love with the waiter. He built his own guitar. This is the place to be.

I'll protect you

I do not count the backyard sleepovers in tents as camping. I had my fair share of them. They were usually miserable. There were always too many girls, freezing, half the time we bailed and ended up in the house. One time I was the girl flanking the tent door, it rained all night, the door leaked and to this day I can not forget how wet and cold I was. Another time it was my back yard and the tent had a hole in it the exact size of my labrodor retriever's head. We wouldn't let her in the tent so she spent the night with her head through the hole looking at us. This turned out to be a good thing becuase it kept out the swarms of misquitos that plague Minnesota in the summer.

My first real camping experience was after I had left home.
He and I were traveling to from South Central Colorado to meet up with friends at Lake Mead Nevada. We were on a kind of a farewell tour. Planning on going our seperate ways after Lake Mead. This is an account of the beginning of a road trip that changed course daily and to this very day is still going on. Being the perfect gentlemen he had an extra sleeping bag for whoever that lucky girl was. Turned out I was the lucky girl. We had to pick up a tent on the way., It was a three to five hour drive from where we started to a town where we could even buy a tent. Durango Colorado. This included crossing some 10000 foot passes in a snow storm at night. The sporting goods store would be long closed when we got there but he being the charmer that he is, called ahead and convinced the store owner to meet us when we got into town.

We left Durango in the late evening and continued west. Left the mountains and the snow behind us. Into the high desert. Somewhere, not sure if it was Colorado or Utah he drove down an unmarked road in search of a place to camp. "Do you know this road is on an Indian Reservation?" I said. "Yeah, I know." "Should we be here?" "Yeah, it will be ok." He pulled off the road and started zipping the sleeping bags together. "What about the tent?" "I'm tired, it's late, we don't need it." "Why did we make such an effort to get one?" "In case we need it." "But there are snakes, and spiders and...." "I'll protect you." Damn, I am such a sucker for "I'll protect you". I kind of melt when I hear that. So we crawled into our sleeping bags on the desert floor. I was sure I would wake up surrounded by Indians pointing their bows and arrows at me, a rattlesnack in my sleeping bag and a scorpian in my shoe. The stars were infinite. No moon in sight. I was protected.

It turns out you do not sleep late when sleeping under the stars. It also turns out our Indian reservation was part of a national monument. A geographical wonder. I awoke at that time of day as the sun was coming up. That time of the day when everything looks on fire. Strange rock formations jutted from the flat valley floor where we lay. It was amazing. Did this man I was lying beside plan this visual feast for me to wake up to? Is this how he wanted me to experience this eye candy made by God? Did this next to the last of the true romantics just get lucky steering down a random road in the night.
I like camping.

If I had the chance I'de ask the world to dance...

about this Iraq/Muslim/war thing. It does not seem to be working. I am not sure what George Bush had in mind when he started this. It is time to take a look at some alternative plans. Like mine. I heard a comedian thinking we could get the world to mellow out a little if we crop dusted it with weed. This is funny. But why wouldn't it work?
They say it takes three weeks to break a bad habit. So if we cropped dusted Iraq for three weeks with marijuana smoke it could change the face of history. Think about it. Not the home grown shit that makes you want to sit on the couch and eat. The stuff that makes you want to step outside and see a sunset and smile at your neighbor. Think about it. Have you ever scene stoners fight. It does not happen. It is all OK. We would giggle.
You would have to feed them. That is Jesus 101. Good food. Tastes that make you happy to exist. You would need music. Happy music. Not angry music. Maybe that would be my job. I could be drafted by the army to make great playlists. Broadcast them over a country wide PA. Everyone would stand around and groove a little. "with a smile on their face". Then we could ask the world to dance.
If they were really good we would let them have a pillow fight.

He Said...She Said...

We were not supposed to be there. Frankfurt Germany. One of those odd airline mishaps I so often find myself in. Been traveling to such and such and encountered a plane delay. No flights today. A bomb had pushed itself up through the soil on the edge of the runway and it needed some looking into. It is not what you think. It was a WWII bomb that had been hidden for years and resurfaced. This presented the airport with two problems. 1. How to deactivate a WWII bomb and 2. This bomb was now a historical artifact, a piece of history and needed to be saved. The airline put "he and I" up in a hotel for the rest of the day and night. I don’t think it matters what city or country you are in, airport hotels though comfortable and nice are all kind of the same. Not interested in spending the rest of the day watching German TV "he and I" made our way into Frankfurt proper. I was very comfortable with European Mass transit and did not even consider it would be a problem. But it was….

I had saved a few of my spoils from Amsterdam and "he and I" decided to enjoy them en route. Found ourselves at the subway station to purchase tickets and realized how much we were in over our heads. I stared at that ticket machine, he stared at the ticket machine, pushed some random buttons. Nothing on that machine was of any use in helping us, no diagrams, no color coded maps, no words of English. Just random codes. He and I were barely in a position to ask for help. Someone took pity on us put some money in the machine handed us two tickets and we flashed that universal thank you smile. Hopped on a train. It was nice. "He and I" were in that Amsterdam state of mind. I sat down and settled into him. Quiet, the colors were more defined, everything was brighter in a pleasant sort of way, the sounds a little more distinct, houses flashed by as we went from neighborhood to neighborhood to inner city where we disappeared into subway tunnels. It was nice looking out that train window.

Frankfurt is really kind of a nothing-spectacular place. Most of it was destroyed in WWI and WWII. It is very modern and post 1950. "He and I" walked, had a bite to eat, had a coffee. By chance we came upon one little pocket of “Old Germany”. One little area that had not been destroyed by war. It seemed kind of out of place. Disney had come along and tried to give the place a little charm. Again in that Amsterdam state of mind "he and I" decided to make our way back to our room. Frankfurt was checked off my list. Kind of one of those “been there, done that, scene that” experiences. I feel no need to revisit. It clearly has nothing to offer me. Found a subway station and again we were more than lost. Levels of trains and tunnels and signs everywhere. Lit up like high noon with the brightest fluorescent lights know to man and white tiles. We wandered pretty much aimlessly for a good 30 minutes before we decided to sit for a while and study a map. That is when “the man” came along.

The man sat down next to "he and I" and started talking. Said he wanted to practice his English. I don’t know what the man’s story was. He could have been homeless or not. His clothes were a bit worn and dirty but I think mine were too. And I was not homeless. At least I was pretty sure I wasn’t. Things were a little dicey when I left. Sometimes you never know what you’re walking into until you open the door. That is another story. The man started talking about Genesis. Asked if we mind talking about Genesis. This is the funny part. The three of us had a 20-minute conversation together all talking about something completely different and yet our questions and responses and interactions worked. "I" thought the man was talking about Star trek. The movie where Spock dies and then comes back to life on the planet the Star trek crew built and termed the Genesis Project. "He" thought the man was having a biblical discussion with us and it turns out the man was really talking about Phil Collins and his band Genesis. You have to understand this...when the man said him, I thought he meant Spock, my "he" thought it meant God and the man really meant Phil Collins and then we kept going form there. Then the man got kind of pissed off at us. "He and I" started laughing when we realized what was going on and the man thought the laughter was at him. I promise it wasn't. He left with an attitude and shuffled away. Back to task at hand, "he and I" did make it on a train and somehow willed it to be the one that went where "he and I" were going.

espeically on that sun setting into the ocean thing

At work today I read this on the back of a CD cover. (Because that is the kind of stuff i do at work and my job is important.) Kind of liked it and I thought these pictures went along nicely. It was written on the thank you page after a long list of thank yous.
Sincerely,
to whoever or whatever decided
that this world and all our lives
would be such a good idea
nice work.
especially on that sun into the ocean thing,
without a doubt
you are a bastard.....
and i love you
let there be a heaven we will all get in.
thanks,
TS

Life of Pi

I finished a book the other day I did not want to end. That happens sometimes. The book kind of becomes a friend I do not want to say goodbye to so I read fewer pages everyday, fewer and further apart. So I miss Richard Parker and Pi and I am quite confident that I could survive for months adrift on a life boat in the middle of the ocean with a tiger.
I am also pissed off the book didn't answer all my questions and I desperately want to talk about this with someone. For example, what's with the meercats? My family read it years ago and digested it and argued and talked and moved on. I am not ready to do so. So if anyone can share any insights.....