A Few of My Favorite Things. . .

I chose not to answer any of the personal questions on the profile portion of the Blog site. However, if I were to answer the "Favorite Movie" question, I would say: Name any movie by Wes Anderson, and that is my favorite. (I heart Wes Anderson).

I would also like to say that "The Daily Show" and the Sunday morning radio program on NPR, "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me" are a few of my favorite things (as well as the movie "The Sound of Music," but that is besides the point. Although, there really is no point).

I really like to make waffles on Sunday morning -- blueberry waffles, oat-bran waffles with bananas and pecans, oat-bran inflicted waffles with strawberries on top -- drink coffee, and listen to "Wait, Wait, Don't Tell Me." Last Sunday I played Boggle while doing this. At first with Cole, and then solo, as an exerise to pump up in anticipation for next weekend's game ( see photo above depicting weekly Boggle Bonanza) . . . can you hear me Namany?

He is Ironman

Cole kickin' it after school. . .

Pass the salt please

Everyone in my house holds a different religious/spiritual belief than any other person in the house. I think this provides a great opportunity to teach tolerance and understanding. No one is allowed to call anyone else soul-less or declare that that person will die in an impending apocalypse. No one is allowed to call the other stupid or declare that they are unable to think for themselves.

One night at the dinner table we were discussing our differences and the fact that individual beliefs satisfy individual needs. This ideal then led to sharing about what we believe will happen to us when we die. That discussion led, in turn, to what we would want done with our bodies when we die. (This may sound like morbid dinner-time talk, but it was actually quite a lively conversation).

I said I was kind of interested by what Walt Whitman had to say about our decaying bodies becoming the source for other living things to grow and thrive. I wondered if our only choices were cremation or burial in a coffin. I don't think anyone ever requests: I'd like to be tossed in a shallow grave in the middle of a field (it just seems like the best way to fertilize other living things). -Or- what about the element of surprise: I'd like to be dumped on a remote trail up in the mountains and be discovered years later by surprised hikers!

Dinner-time talk indeed . . . but something to think about.

Earth vs. Ersatz (In My Side Yard)

Everytime I look at this mighty flower that has pushed its way through the black-top, I think: Victory! Nature prevails!
But, then, my mind always degrades to the next thought: I paid $x,xxx for that lousy black-top.
Why must the lowlier thought seep up on the loftier first? Why?

Me Myself and I Tunes - or - myTunes

Clever lyrics I heard today:

"opinions were like kittens I was giving them away" -- Modest Mouse


"talking trash to the garbage around you" -- Beck

It's A Cheap Trick

In the last two days I have heard the song "Dream Police" THREE times on the radio! I like it, but I am bewildered by the frequency (both meanings of the word frequency may be applied here).

I don't know what the significance of these encounters are -- probably just that late seventies rock is making a resurgence. I may have been wearing my checkered vans one of those days I heard Cheap Trick on the radio, just like in Jr. High when I first heard the band.

'Cause the're waiting for me.
The're looking for me.
Ev'ry single night the're driving me insane.
Those men inside my brain.

Am I embarrassed to admit that I still sometimes wear checkered vans while cranking "Dream Police" on the radio as though it were 1979? Maybe a little. But I have moved on, however, without forgetting to rock on.

Alcatraz: The most romantic island ever.



Mmmmmm. Napping.

Empty Nest

My family has always had pets: be it chickens, hamsters, fish, kittens, cats, or a dog.

We are currently without a pet and the house feels strangely -- peaceful.

Sometimes I imagine I see a cat darting through the room out of the corner of my eye, but I know it is just an illusion. A remembered image, a left over feeling, like a hiccup when really your hiccups have stopped. Sometimes I feel as though I have forgotten to do something when I leave the house, and the feeling nags me as I close the door. Then I realize it is the feeling that I need to feed a pet, or put one outside. It is a concern that has turned into a reflex.

I don't need to rush to shut the door, fearing the dog will race out, even if just a tiny crack is available. I don't need to share my bed with a stretched out pet, pushing me closer to falling off. I don't need to run to the store late at night because we are out of the pet's food. . . I don't need to play, or cuddle, or be sought out by a pet. I don't need a pet. I hate pets.

Smooot Valley High brought the howse down last night. But their hot, clean-cut rock-n-roll (to melt a fuse), could not withstand the after-partying that the Dead Hensons can throw down. My good God, for Muppet loving people who can move you to tears with the wanting to live in the letter "I" song, which I did want to live in when I was growing up by the way, not to mention "I Dream of Genie's" purple, glass bottle (I still do want to live in that glass bottle, with the circular surround plush, purple couch -- who wouldn't!?), they can sure throw back the booze, drinking out of bottles wrapped in paper bags, and mingle in any crowd.

Any crowd included some random "dude's" pad and a small, loud, spunky girl who kept yelling about her roller derby glory. Yes it is true, her and another friendly, but quieter, girl are part of the roller derby league in Sacramento. They looked like some bad-ass jammers to me.

It all proved too much for me at that time of night, however, and after a terrific night of music and laughter, no back-street party on the chilly streets of Sacramento could hold my attention. Let's go I whined. But the Dead Hensons, they partied on. Smooot Valley High will have a lot to say to them when their hangovers clear the next day.

Unidentified flying Airplanes

My flight home Friday night was delayed first for an hour, then another half hour, and then another half. We passengers stood in line and at each announcement hoped to hear that we would be boarding soon. With not much else to do but wait, naturally conversations sprung up among total strangers.

I happen to be standing next to a late forties male, portly in stature and a young female in her early twenties. We struck up a conversation about various things: where we were heading, how it would've been quicker to drive, and how stressful flying can be. I admitted my fear of take-off and landings, and posed the question "how can this be safer than driving"?! We all nodded and agreed with a chuckle. Then the man, who was on his way to a karate tournament in Sacramento, said "and we have pretty primitive forms of flying. We only fly two-dimensionally, unlike aliens, when you think about their technology, they can fly 3D, even 4D". There was a pause, I politely stumbled an indiscernible answer, while the young woman abruptly pulled a book out of her bag, turned her back, and began reading.

There was a long moment of awkward silence, and then the man began to practice slow, subtle karate moves.

I was glad when the line began to move and we were finally able to board our two dimensional flying craft.

Nuclear Winter Wonderland?

Ahhhhh, I love this warm February weather that happens every year. It is always a surprise to find that one day, at least for a few weeks, instead of layering up against the winter chill, I can simply wear a sweatshirt and break free from the knit-tights underneath my jeans. Hoorah!! The best part of all is the gorgeous blossoms popping out everywhere, bedazzling the landscape -- and fragrant! There is a thick bed of white narcissus that bloom outside my front door every February that smells so delicious my teeth ache as though I've eaten too much candy. I want them to last forever.

And the hiking! Today I took my eldest son Brent and three of his friends, Jonny, Damon, and Ian on a rather challenging hike up the Robie Wendell training hill. As we were working our way up the mile-long steep hill, the sun made its presence known, albeit it was still only a 70 degree sun. Unhappy with what they called "heat," two of the boys, Ian and Damon, shouted to me in video-game-speak, "we are going to destroy you!" and jested shaking fists.

Ian went on further with his curses and said, "damn global warming! What we need is a nuclear winter." Nice, I said to him, is that your solution to global warming, a nuclear winter? You should run for President. He stated his satirical slogan, "fight terrorism and global warming at the same time -- nuclear war."

Bad-Ass Jammers et al

First of all, I feel I must preface why I found myself laying in a hotel bed alone flipping through T.V channels. Well, I couldn't get an internet connection at the hotel, so I could not work; I had brought two great books of short stories and the latest issue of "Medical Laboratory Observer" (because I am a geek like that), but I was too tired to read, and sadly, not in the mood. So, this is how I found myself lying in bed flipping through T.V. channels, and this is what I found: "Rollergirls" on A&E.

It was a heart-wrenching, documentary-style program about the women of roller derby. I tuned in as the team leader, a pretty, but tough looking, blond woman was earnestly encouraging the young, unsure rookie: "You are our bad-ass jammer, you are." She encouraged her soulfully as she gripped her arm, looking into her eyes until the rookie nodded back agreeing that she was indeed,a bad-ass jammer.

The rookie, Venis Envy (spelled Venis, not Venus), earned her team leader's confidence as her team "La Putas Del Fuego" battled and clobbered their rivals the "Hell Cats." The girls careened passed each other, but not without clawing, pushing, punching, and smashing each other along the way. It was nice to see Chola win the first round and her entire family -- mom, dad, young children, even her old, little, withered Asian grandpa -- jump up and down cheering for their roller derby queen. (Grandpa was even wearing a t-shirt with "Chola" in spray painted-style lettering on the front as he applauded). They embraced her success.

Cha-Cha and Veruca Assaulted performed equally as stunning as "La Putas Del Fuego" defeated the "Hell Cats." "Nice Jam!" the girls yelled to each other in congratulations, "Nice Jam!"

The very next station I switched to featured couples WWF wrestling, with the most ridiculous cartoonish-looking characters. This appeared to me like it was just a front for brisk, orgy action and I flipped to the next station, re-runs of Seinfeld, and soon fell asleep.

I am glad I did not dream that night of roller derby, or ridiculous couples staged wrestling -- but I think I did dream of George Costanza. I think I said to him, "you are a bad-ass jammer."

Switch, ooooh, la, la, la

Do you all remember when I suggested we quit our jobs and go in to producing switch grass and selling it as a form of alternative fuel sorce? Well, Jason Adair informed me that in the State-of-the-Union address, ol' W mentioned switch grass -- to what extent I do not know (I try not to listen to those boring things. I wait for the Daily Show summary).

So, are you in? It's the wave of the future -- let's ride.

Don't Let The Message Get Lost On You

One of the many sights that entertains me while driving through Stockton is passing this ridiculous billboard on my way to St. Joseph's Hospital. The first noticeable image from the billboard is a ginormous picture of Pamela Anderson with her large, bulbous breasts mounding over the top of her tank top. The next noticeable feature is her perfectly golden, piled-high, up-do crowning her head and a very posed, performed-sultry smile. This whole picture is juxtaposed underneath the next attention getter, the title: "Boycott KFC!"

The first time I saw this billboard I was passing too quickly to get the full import of the message. All I thought was, "Pamela Anderson is the poster child for boycotting KFC?" What the hell!

A few weeks later I passed the billboard again and was able to prepare myself to investigate further. The rest of the message, in finer print, next to Pamela's breasts, reads: "scalding live chickens, painful beak removal (isn't 'painful' subjective to the chicken?), and over-crowded chicken coops, or something to that effect.

While I have no doubt that KFC mishandles the care and slaughtering of their chickens, I think the larger message here is a societal one: "boycott the unfair treatment of using women as sex objects." What part of this glaring faux sexiness makes one feel empathy for a chicken? One might wonder, however, whether one would like breasts or thighs with that value meal.

A familly that hikes together. . . looks at really pretty views together.

Friendly People

Do you know those people who are strangers but who are very candid with personal or historical information about themselves with out any provocation? They sort of make you feel uncomfortable because with no previous relationship formed it is a little unusual to be hearing intimate details about their lives. Most of the time this information begins with a health issue that they need to talk about with others. Like the woman who sat next to me on the plane smelling of stale cigarettes and perfume and eating cold pizza. She told me all about her recent back surgery and how it has debilitated her, keeping her from work and which then lead the conversation spiraling down into how her and her brother just don't talk anymore and how they've grown apart. She has remained fairly close with her parents, however, which shed a little brighter light on her somewhat sad sounding life.

Then there was the woman in Target who told me I should not stray from my cart since I had left my wallet in it (I have been cautioned by others before her for the same transgression). Instead of stopping at the warning, she told me that she gets warned about the same thing, but it is usually by her boyfriend. She said to me, in front of several other people in line, that she is just not used to someone caring about her like that since she left home at 14 years old. Wow, I said. She went into detailed stories of her living situation and how she survived on wit and the kindness of others. She told me about the different people she ended up meeting and said jokingly that no one would probably miss her if she were gone, not even her grown children, except that her new boyfriend really seems to care. I must admit, I did encouraged this person to talk more by asking questions, but when it was time to go we simply said good bye to one another. All that information shared, and then a simple nod and mumble of good bye.

Pilot's Butt & other musings

As I was boarding a plane home from Washington D.C., I was following a pilot who was only commuting on this flight and couldn't help but notice that he had one of those strange male behinds that is wide with hips, but is flat. His blue trousers were pulled up high around his waste. I thought to myself: Pilot's Butt. Years of bad airport food and little exercise, the shape comes with the job -- poor guy.

I did not see the pilot who was flying the aircraft (or his behind), but he was very talkative over the loudspeaker, and even with a dry sense of humor, came across friendly. He explained all the staff's credentials and reassuring features of the plane. He also reviewed some of the rules: "please store items in the overhead bins; please observe the seatbelt signs; and please no conjugating in the bathrooms, I mean congregating near the bathrooms." The commented startled me and I looked around even more startled that NO ONE was laughing. No one even snickered, flinched, or seemed to notice what he had said. I started to wonder if I imagined it, but I replayed the speech in my mind and nope, that is clearly what he said. He went on to tell a few more dry jokes, albeit clean ones, that landed equally as flat.

Later I fell asleep briefly and had a dream that the last three rows on the plane were designated for people who wanted to have sex -- as though there was a section for first class, a section for the mobility impaired, and a section for conjugal activities. I woke up slightly bewildered by this dream.

Along with sleeping, I also like to listen to music while flying. I have discovered that the soundtrack to "Amelie" can make even the most dull connecting flight seem like an adventure; or at the very least leave you with anticipation that fresh croissants and espresso await you at a beautiful sidewalk cafe (instead of a crowded airport offering bad duty free shopping). The "Best of Blondie" makes a great soundtrack to landing at night in a big city. The bedazzling lights, the anxiety/excitement of descending, and late 70's disco/punk playing in your ear gives you a bit of that rock/glam feeling -- you know the one?

Then, you land at Gate C7 and try your hardest to avoid the vulturous sky caps who chew you out when you tip them your last two dollars, even though you really didn't want their service, only directions to the hotel shuttle. Hmmmf.

Beef: It's what's for dinner

Cooking tip: generously pour balsamic vinegar over any choice cut of meat and it will attain a nice, bright red, fresh bloody look when finished fully cooking. Savory.

Driving Miss Lazy

I do a lot of driving for my new job. Please, for the moment, let us not discuss non-renewable resources and air pollution (I can not take the guilt). I mostly get to drive to "beautiful" and peculiarly fragrant places like Stockton and Fresno. The other day, however, I was lucky enough to schedule a drive to Mariposa, visit a small hospital in that quaint town, then continue on through Yosemite, over Tiago Pass and on down to Mammoth Lakes. It was really beautiful (without sarcastic quotes). The landscape was breathtaking as I wound up, through, and under rocks (seriously under rocks. If anyone has ever entered Yosemite on that side of the Park, you know what I mean), mountains, trees -- and bears. As I was driving away from the sunset at the top of the pass I saw a small, puffy, brown mass step out on to the road. A bear cub! I started to slow down when I saw an impressively large Momma bear rise up and snatch her youngling off the side of the road. I am sure I saw her scold the brown fur ball; and as I passed the two in their familial moment, I said to Momma bear: "I know what you mean. Those darn kids playing near the road. . ." I think she nodded back in a bonding moment of agreement -- at least in my imagination.

I stayed in a lodge-like hotel called Mammoth Inn, taking my dinner in the dining room while pouring over call schedules and utilization reports. The next morning I woke to the mountains, ate breakfast in a coffee shop in the village and then had a very satisfying meeting with two laboratory department heads of the Mammoth Hospital. I drove home 395 then over to 50. I stopped and waived to the pristine Echo Lake, which I hadn't seen in years, and it started to rain, leaving lovely dimples in the water. I came home to a warm house and kids who had just made hot chocolate. Some days at work can be really great.

Whirl-winds

Wow. My brain is spinning with this new job. One minute I am listening to a PhD. give a presentation on molecular biology and in turn the diagnostic testing that we are supposed to inform our hospital clients about -- and the next minute I am listening to a conference call dealing with a 6 million dollar project -- and it sounds like these are people playing Monopoly as grown-up kids. Sometimes this all very surreal, and very different from where I had ever imagined myself to be (like, when I was ten years old, I thought I would work on a ranch by the ocean and climb and hike and play forever).

But since I have grown-up, responsibility calls. Sometimes I say to myself, self: "this is not my busy sales job. . . this is not my blue company car. . . this is not my 401K plan." Then the days go by, same as it ever was. . .