One hour to go in my first shift as a volunteer for The Nature Conservancy. I think I am going to make it through this thing. So far in the past three hours I have answered the phone seven times, received three parcels, and watched the wind move leaves across a gravel parking lot outside the window. Totally birching.
Last night I told Melissa that I am a fool for volunteering to do anything that did not pertain to the imminent arrival of our baby. Now I am not so sure. This is okay. This is worth it. This is boring as hell.
When I first walked in the door two weeks ago to apply as a volunteer, I figured front desk duty might be on the task list. I had, and still do have, a much keener interest in doing actual nature conservation work, whatever that entails. Dressing like a newt and sneaking around marshlands to assay rodent leavings, or jumping out of clean energy airplanes to rescue endangered raptors mid-flight. I really have no idea how these things work. I just want to help out a little, since I love nature and spend a lot of time out in it and from time to time dig a hole and leave a trace of myself behind. There is virtually no way to literally "leave no trace" unless you just don't go there in the first place. Like me today. Anyway, the point is that we have got to take care of the places we love, it is just that simple.
Having sat here on my ass thus far, I can safely conclude that I don't want to volunteer to do much more than sit here on my ass. If they want my mad skills out in the big old world, they can pay for it. I do have enough of my own work to do out there, unpaid, uninsured, at times un-legal I'll bet. How big of a pile of debris can one leave in one's backyard before it represents a public nuisance, by the way? Should I instead make several smaller piles of debris around my property? Perhaps there is a "white trash" clause which I can skate through by chucking a couple old tires and some baby shoes up on the roof. Then maybe I will strip down a 1986 Dodge Diplomat and leave it on blocks in the front yard. I know I am getting off topic - not very nature conservationistical of me. My mind wanders these days. There is a lot on it.
Thursday, August 7, 2008
Concession as an afterthought.
I regretfully neglected to post any follow up information on the presidential bid by the Dog and Bird. They are both out. The dog has been photograped in a compromising situation invloving several rabbits, and the bird is desperately addicted to cheese. Not necessarily a bad thing until you take into consideration the fact that if cheese is made visible to the bird, he will stare at it and shriek until it is given to him. Alternative and/or future positions in government and political service are not currently under consideration. Vote Obama.
Sunday, August 3, 2008
My Wife is an Animal
It is mildly terrifying to be a mammal. Sometimes I think it would be way easier to be a robot. Or a paramecium. But then again, this whole ability to create another sentient life form is pretty great. In the sense of continuation, I mean. The scariness is in the mechanics. Now, more than ever, my wife is an animal. A thriving, primal, essential member of the cohort Placentalia. I guess I am too, but right now that seems utterly irrelevant.
I am amazed on a daily basis by what she is going through. Yes, I am a dude, so I have no real grasp of this experience, but I am with it enough to understand those fearful mechanics and realize that any fear is irrational here. Granted, one can apply as much or as little internal distress as they want to the situation based on a little research or a lot of hearsay regarding potential unpleasantness, but I have a mind in part inspired by certain heroes. In this case I'll take a page from the great cosmologist Carl Sagan. All else being equal, just look at the numbers. The odds are well in our favor that my wife and our baby will pass through this transition without harm. When the reasons for fear are demonstrated to be irrational, the fear is made distant and meaningless, like a Christmas snow globe for sale in July.
We have chosen to have a natural birth, away from the hospital, away from doctors, away from needless pharmaceutical interventions. I am perplexed by the increasingly common practice of choosing those other options. As if it were a simple decision, chocolate versus vanilla. Sure, the option is there for us should complications arise, but I know we will not go down that path. My wife is an animal. So am I. Our Class have been doing it this way for countless eons. So long, in fact, that we have refined our engineering to the point that we can completely bypass the natural way of things and use wholly unnatural techniques to deliver our progeny into the world. Yes, this is necessary at times. But I can't rationalize the choice to do so without a reasonable attempt at the old school style. Neither can my love. This is her choice, after all.
All I can say is that the choice to schedule unnecessary surgery to extract your baby from your body with drugs and knives is baffling to this dude. It also seems terribly selfish, if you look at what is really happening to your baby, who is another human and not a tumor, after all. This egocentricity would be in keeping with the mode that American's seem to have chosen, if you read the numbers, but I don't believe that is what we really want as a nation of individuals. I believe that we are much more alike than the town criers would have us think. Again, all things being equal... Events that drastically alter the state of the world are not likely to happen to you in your life time. Unless you have a child. Now this is mere speculation on my part. I have a strange feeling that my life is about to change in a very profound way. Parents, you just might understand.
Saturday, November 3, 2007
Top 10 Reasons Why My Dog Should be Our Next President:
10: If looks count for anything, he's way ahead of the human competition.
9: He is undeniably loyal, and acts only in the best interest of the pack.
8: He would give his life to defend his pack, instead of hiding like a pussy cat whenever strangers come around.
7: He lives to serve the pack, has no cronies, and can't be influenced by lobbyists.
6: He loves his job, and is ready to work 24/7.
5: His love for the pack is pure and unfailing.
4: He can learn new tricks.
3: He knows when natural disasters are imminent, and will respond appropriately.
2: He is an excellent hunter. (Just let him sniff one of Osama's socks.)
1: He is smarter by far than our current head of state.
So I urge you to consider the true independent candidate, and his choice for VP - look forward to Lucas/Yoda in 2008.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
And that's just a little bit more than the law would allow.
I Just got back from Nashville. Working for Arizona Bob with the Hooligan Crew, we were in residence for the weekend at The Gaylord Opryland. This place is a mind blowing absurdity of indulgent waste. Example: at the burger joint they individually wrap each veggie so you can build your mediocre meat burger yourself and then discard the custom made plastic box that previously encased each pickle or tomato slice. The whole place, in fact, is in a giant box made of glass and steel. A huge, individually wrapped, self contained model of life on the moon, or some sterile fabricated future of climate controlled outside inside world. Seriously weird. I really wanted Pauly Shore to be show up, somehow thinking an appearance by the Weaz would ease my mind and take the reality out of this all too real place. It was not to be.
After two days in the dome we started joking about the "outlands" and told tales of something called fresh air. Our destiny was to stay, however, four nights and three days in the Gaylord, where I never saw this Gay Lord, by the way. I could only sense his presence hovering above somewhere, ensconced in one of the inaccessible glass turrets that topped each of the four humongous atria, watching the plump tourists mill about in his perfectly manicured little world of wonders.
The smallest atrium was about two acres, surrounded on all sides by the walls of the hotel room wings. Each atrium was filled with plants and waterworks. One had a giant island where we found a glorious buffet. This impressed me dearly, as I personally regard the concept of the buffet in very high esteem - if managed correctly that is. It is one of the crowning achievements of modernity, after all, though also often one of the most poorly executed.
Another atrium was home to what I could only call the Degobah of Nashville, a bubbling steamy lily pad laden soup where Cirqe du Soleil cast-offs played bizarre cantina band covers to imbue the atrium with an ambiance that bordered on jungle madness. I dared not linger here, lest my sanity be lost.
Our work was dirty and thorough. We fixed about 200 rigging points to the ceiling of a massive event room, a space where one could have assembled a life size replica of Red Square. Apparently the convention business is alive and kicking in Music City. We rocked out the job in under three days, and on Sunday night we hit the town, leaving the safety of the Gaylord for the first time since our arrival.
Contrary to our fears, none of us were afflicted by the so called "outland syndrome," another purported danger of leaving the enclosure. A few pitchers of the local Yazoo, and our anxieties relaxed. Life was just the same as ever. We could come and go from the glass house at Opryland as much as we pleased, with no ill effects. They must put something in the air in that place, the way they do in Vegas, to keep the guests inside and in a docile state of mind. No wonder so many of the other Gaylord denizens were so well endowed of girth. There was little more to do there than breathe the sweet air and sup from the buffet, the burger joint, the pizza place, the many breakfast nooks, the sushi bar, the Old Hick'ry manor house where one evening's tab was in excess of $900.00, or the Jack Daniels tavern where the band faithfully covered Waylon Jennings - to name just a few of the available feeding troughs.
A few days outside the glass and I can see the place clearly for what it is; a well disguised factory farm, where humans are the livestock and the end product is a stupendous amount of cash in the pocket of Mr. Gay Lord, whoever that may be.
During my stay I felt always a degree removed, as a true outlander along with the rest of our crew. We were often dirty and unkempt from the efforts of our labor, roaming about in a pack like coyotes, indulging ourselves in pleasures we would not normally enjoy.
Yes, I'll go back. Wouldn't you?
After two days in the dome we started joking about the "outlands" and told tales of something called fresh air. Our destiny was to stay, however, four nights and three days in the Gaylord, where I never saw this Gay Lord, by the way. I could only sense his presence hovering above somewhere, ensconced in one of the inaccessible glass turrets that topped each of the four humongous atria, watching the plump tourists mill about in his perfectly manicured little world of wonders.
The smallest atrium was about two acres, surrounded on all sides by the walls of the hotel room wings. Each atrium was filled with plants and waterworks. One had a giant island where we found a glorious buffet. This impressed me dearly, as I personally regard the concept of the buffet in very high esteem - if managed correctly that is. It is one of the crowning achievements of modernity, after all, though also often one of the most poorly executed.
Another atrium was home to what I could only call the Degobah of Nashville, a bubbling steamy lily pad laden soup where Cirqe du Soleil cast-offs played bizarre cantina band covers to imbue the atrium with an ambiance that bordered on jungle madness. I dared not linger here, lest my sanity be lost.
Our work was dirty and thorough. We fixed about 200 rigging points to the ceiling of a massive event room, a space where one could have assembled a life size replica of Red Square. Apparently the convention business is alive and kicking in Music City. We rocked out the job in under three days, and on Sunday night we hit the town, leaving the safety of the Gaylord for the first time since our arrival.
Contrary to our fears, none of us were afflicted by the so called "outland syndrome," another purported danger of leaving the enclosure. A few pitchers of the local Yazoo, and our anxieties relaxed. Life was just the same as ever. We could come and go from the glass house at Opryland as much as we pleased, with no ill effects. They must put something in the air in that place, the way they do in Vegas, to keep the guests inside and in a docile state of mind. No wonder so many of the other Gaylord denizens were so well endowed of girth. There was little more to do there than breathe the sweet air and sup from the buffet, the burger joint, the pizza place, the many breakfast nooks, the sushi bar, the Old Hick'ry manor house where one evening's tab was in excess of $900.00, or the Jack Daniels tavern where the band faithfully covered Waylon Jennings - to name just a few of the available feeding troughs.
A few days outside the glass and I can see the place clearly for what it is; a well disguised factory farm, where humans are the livestock and the end product is a stupendous amount of cash in the pocket of Mr. Gay Lord, whoever that may be.
During my stay I felt always a degree removed, as a true outlander along with the rest of our crew. We were often dirty and unkempt from the efforts of our labor, roaming about in a pack like coyotes, indulging ourselves in pleasures we would not normally enjoy.
Yes, I'll go back. Wouldn't you?
Sunday, September 16, 2007
Three days in Chicago
It was a short
trip, packed with plenty of activity. We saw a lot of friends and ate a lot of pizza. Not the over loaded and over hyped "Chicago style" pie, but real normal pizza made by real normal Chicagoans. I know a few people who say Giordano's stuffed pizza is the best, but in their heart of hearts they know they are fooling themselves. It's tolerable stuff, but it just doesn't compare to a good quality thin crust. This has nothing to do with New York. Nothing at all. Their pizza is as good or as crappy as anywhere else and they can do whatever they want with it as far as I'm concerned, so long as they keep it in New York and stop bragging about it.
I see a few places here in Tucson that try to call themselves "Chicago style," as if that means anything. If you want to savor a place, go lick the pavement there. A city is not defined by the food they serve, I think it is more likely the other way around. It is equally easy to find good and bad selections of any given cuisine in any well heeled city. Some places, like Chicago, are greater metropolii with greater populations of big fat egos. They may claim they are the preeminent city of X "style" of food, but at the end of the line it's usually the same imported labor teams assembling the same haute cuisine. Supervised by Mr. Food, overseen by Mrs. Sauce, masters on high who refuse to respond to any name if not prefaced by "Chef (insert name here)". The people who actually do the work are part of the labor-borg, the same faces from town to town, a vast army of choppers, slicers, dicers and platers assimilated into one being. They move the food that moves the earth.
I was trapped in a high end kitchen for a lengthy a/v install this past winter, so my presumptions are based on a limited exposure - I beg correction from any who have an opinion that differs from this reality.
I do not consider myself a foodie, but I do recognize talent and good craft, and I respect it tremendously. The truth is, I like to make fun of the people who act as if the food they serve deserves more respect than the underpaid kitchen staff that put it on the plate. Or the wise-ass a/v installer. All food winds up in the same place at the end, and the people who pay too much to eat it are probably more concerned with how they look and who is watching them eat than what the stuff tastes like. Give me honest pizza.
What about the other two days?
Glad you asked.
The weather was good, the company was pleasant, and the futon put kinks in my spine. I am glad to back in my own bed. I know we've lost something in a few relationships which were made convenient by proximity, but others have grown stronger with absence.
trip, packed with plenty of activity. We saw a lot of friends and ate a lot of pizza. Not the over loaded and over hyped "Chicago style" pie, but real normal pizza made by real normal Chicagoans. I know a few people who say Giordano's stuffed pizza is the best, but in their heart of hearts they know they are fooling themselves. It's tolerable stuff, but it just doesn't compare to a good quality thin crust. This has nothing to do with New York. Nothing at all. Their pizza is as good or as crappy as anywhere else and they can do whatever they want with it as far as I'm concerned, so long as they keep it in New York and stop bragging about it.I see a few places here in Tucson that try to call themselves "Chicago style," as if that means anything. If you want to savor a place, go lick the pavement there. A city is not defined by the food they serve, I think it is more likely the other way around. It is equally easy to find good and bad selections of any given cuisine in any well heeled city. Some places, like Chicago, are greater metropolii with greater populations of big fat egos. They may claim they are the preeminent city of X "style" of food, but at the end of the line it's usually the same imported labor teams assembling the same haute cuisine. Supervised by Mr. Food, overseen by Mrs. Sauce, masters on high who refuse to respond to any name if not prefaced by "Chef (insert name here)". The people who actually do the work are part of the labor-borg, the same faces from town to town, a vast army of choppers, slicers, dicers and platers assimilated into one being. They move the food that moves the earth.
I was trapped in a high end kitchen for a lengthy a/v install this past winter, so my presumptions are based on a limited exposure - I beg correction from any who have an opinion that differs from this reality.
I do not consider myself a foodie, but I do recognize talent and good craft, and I respect it tremendously. The truth is, I like to make fun of the people who act as if the food they serve deserves more respect than the underpaid kitchen staff that put it on the plate. Or the wise-ass a/v installer. All food winds up in the same place at the end, and the people who pay too much to eat it are probably more concerned with how they look and who is watching them eat than what the stuff tastes like. Give me honest pizza.
What about the other two days?
Glad you asked.
The weather was good, the company was pleasant, and the futon put kinks in my spine. I am glad to back in my own bed. I know we've lost something in a few relationships which were made convenient by proximity, but others have grown stronger with absence.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Birthday in the Land of Sand and Eggos
I turned 33 on Labor Day. Melissa and I were in San Diego, just having a good time vacation weekend. We stayed with my cousin Ben and his wife Lydia, the expecting young parents of a real human baby. Saturday evening we watched the sun disappear into the Pacific.
For dinner we ate at a Persian restaurant featuring a madman on synthesizer who accompanied the Persian equivalent of Robert Goulet, singing in his mysterious foreign tongue. By the time the belly dancer emerged, I was so stuffed with lamb that my view of her contortions was filtered through a shimmering meaty haze. At some point during our repast Ben sneaked away and paid the bill, clearly illustrating "The San Diego Way." I shook my fist at him in rage and gratitude.
Sunday we slept in, and by late morning made our way down the coast to La Jolla. We strolled along the shoreline, watching scores of snorkeled pink tourists bobbing about in the water. I marveled that more of them didn't drown, or founder and become dashed upon the rocks. They drifted around in a delirious mirth, somehow staying afloat in spite of lacking any sort of flotation devices. Melissa reminded me that it was salt water and furthermore, fat floats. A few seals appeared, but mostly they seemed to prefer the depths than give show to the masses.
We ate brunch at a cafe on Prospect street where the service was rude beyond the pale, but the food was decent and the fruit was fresh. I have been told that all avocados in California are hand picked by blonde lifeguards, but I was unable to verify this claim. We strolled the streets of La Jolla for a couple hours, then drove south past Sea World and Mission Bay to Ocean Beach.
I had a boogie board, but something about the volume of humanity already at sport in the sea deterred me from even sticking a toe in the surf. I complained that the ocean was more fun when you went at it with a friend, but Melissa doesn't go in the water. In retrospect I realize that the ocean doesn't give a crap who your friends are and will generally try to throw you out of it no matter the company you keep. We gave up the broasting sands and walked under the pier to the rocks. Along the way some grubby youth requested that we support their acid research program with a small donation; we politely declined. Further along we encountered some apparent subjects of severely failed research projects. We had to leave the side walk to avoid stepping on the needle mottled limbs and torso of one subject in particular. He only moaned at the sky, while his silent companion slumped into himself like a deflating Barney the dinosaur forgotten in the scorching sun.
We made it to the rocks. Here the sea was bold and refreshing, clapping and bursting against the stubborn stone, hurling through crevices and erupting in foamy heaves. Tiny crabs danced around in their tide pools with sideways choreography, and countless pea-sized snails did nothing interesting at all.
Later that day we drove to Oceanside, where my Minnesota college accomplice Steve made a tidy home with his wife behind the gates of a hilltop subdivision. The well known Scott Silbor joined us there, having navigated the treacherous 5 from the Palisades with one arm in a sling. Two days prior he himself was dashed against the sands by the insolent Pacific, resulting in a torn deltoid. After dinner (including more of the afore-mentioned avocados) we set about making music in Steve's home studio. There may exist somewhere some recorded evidence of our impromptu cover of the Sesame Street theme. Anything can happen.
My alarm went off at 5:30 the next morning. I had been awake at 4, and was drifting in and out of semi-sleep until the beeping peal commenced. Melissa had a shower while I loaded surf boards and other necessities into the truck. BY 6:30 we were back at OB, where Rob Stevens was pacing the shore in wait. My first lesson in Surfer Boarding Man began, and I spent the next three hours eating a vomitous quantity of sea foam. By the end of it I was totally taken by the thrill of the sport, though my oceanless desert residence does make regular practice a bit of a hassle. Maybe next time I'll actually stay up for more than ten seconds. Maybe I'll find myself riding on the face of a wave instead of looking up at it from below the surface. Or maybe I should just focus my efforts on the thousands of feet of granite in my own backyard. I'm sure I'll try surfing again but my real game is on the rock, on the end of a rope, the other end of which is tied to my beloved Melissa. The falling is not as much fun here for the landing is far worse, but the escape is much easier. At any given beach there is but one focus, one direction, and all interested parties are in it at once together. In the mountains the paths are countless and varied and your limits are set only by your will to walk and your skill to climb. The farther you push yourself, the fewer people you encounter on your journey. I don't know exactly why, but for me that is an essential element to the satisfaction of my soul.
We hit the road by noon and made it back to Tucson just before seven. It was a very good 33rd, and I am extremely grateful to all those involved. To those who reside in CA whom I was unable to see; my apologies, and I know we will meet again.
For dinner we ate at a Persian restaurant featuring a madman on synthesizer who accompanied the Persian equivalent of Robert Goulet, singing in his mysterious foreign tongue. By the time the belly dancer emerged, I was so stuffed with lamb that my view of her contortions was filtered through a shimmering meaty haze. At some point during our repast Ben sneaked away and paid the bill, clearly illustrating "The San Diego Way." I shook my fist at him in rage and gratitude.Sunday we slept in, and by late morning made our way down the coast to La Jolla. We strolled along the shoreline, watching scores of snorkeled pink tourists bobbing about in the water. I marveled that more of them didn't drown, or founder and become dashed upon the rocks. They drifted around in a delirious mirth, somehow staying afloat in spite of lacking any sort of flotation devices. Melissa reminded me that it was salt water and furthermore, fat floats. A few seals appeared, but mostly they seemed to prefer the depths than give show to the masses.
We ate brunch at a cafe on Prospect street where the service was rude beyond the pale, but the food was decent and the fruit was fresh. I have been told that all avocados in California are hand picked by blonde lifeguards, but I was unable to verify this claim. We strolled the streets of La Jolla for a couple hours, then drove south past Sea World and Mission Bay to Ocean Beach.
I had a boogie board, but something about the volume of humanity already at sport in the sea deterred me from even sticking a toe in the surf. I complained that the ocean was more fun when you went at it with a friend, but Melissa doesn't go in the water. In retrospect I realize that the ocean doesn't give a crap who your friends are and will generally try to throw you out of it no matter the company you keep. We gave up the broasting sands and walked under the pier to the rocks. Along the way some grubby youth requested that we support their acid research program with a small donation; we politely declined. Further along we encountered some apparent subjects of severely failed research projects. We had to leave the side walk to avoid stepping on the needle mottled limbs and torso of one subject in particular. He only moaned at the sky, while his silent companion slumped into himself like a deflating Barney the dinosaur forgotten in the scorching sun.
We made it to the rocks. Here the sea was bold and refreshing, clapping and bursting against the stubborn stone, hurling through crevices and erupting in foamy heaves. Tiny crabs danced around in their tide pools with sideways choreography, and countless pea-sized snails did nothing interesting at all.Later that day we drove to Oceanside, where my Minnesota college accomplice Steve made a tidy home with his wife behind the gates of a hilltop subdivision. The well known Scott Silbor joined us there, having navigated the treacherous 5 from the Palisades with one arm in a sling. Two days prior he himself was dashed against the sands by the insolent Pacific, resulting in a torn deltoid. After dinner (including more of the afore-mentioned avocados) we set about making music in Steve's home studio. There may exist somewhere some recorded evidence of our impromptu cover of the Sesame Street theme. Anything can happen.
My alarm went off at 5:30 the next morning. I had been awake at 4, and was drifting in and out of semi-sleep until the beeping peal commenced. Melissa had a shower while I loaded surf boards and other necessities into the truck. BY 6:30 we were back at OB, where Rob Stevens was pacing the shore in wait. My first lesson in Surfer Boarding Man began, and I spent the next three hours eating a vomitous quantity of sea foam. By the end of it I was totally taken by the thrill of the sport, though my oceanless desert residence does make regular practice a bit of a hassle. Maybe next time I'll actually stay up for more than ten seconds. Maybe I'll find myself riding on the face of a wave instead of looking up at it from below the surface. Or maybe I should just focus my efforts on the thousands of feet of granite in my own backyard. I'm sure I'll try surfing again but my real game is on the rock, on the end of a rope, the other end of which is tied to my beloved Melissa. The falling is not as much fun here for the landing is far worse, but the escape is much easier. At any given beach there is but one focus, one direction, and all interested parties are in it at once together. In the mountains the paths are countless and varied and your limits are set only by your will to walk and your skill to climb. The farther you push yourself, the fewer people you encounter on your journey. I don't know exactly why, but for me that is an essential element to the satisfaction of my soul.
We hit the road by noon and made it back to Tucson just before seven. It was a very good 33rd, and I am extremely grateful to all those involved. To those who reside in CA whom I was unable to see; my apologies, and I know we will meet again.
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