P-town

WARNING: profanity ensues

We are on the MAX yellow line in Portland, after leaving our cheap, two-star hotel in the Rose Quarter -- where, I noted, we are the only two occupants who aren't entertaining guests by the half hour. While it would be quicker to drive, or even swim across the Willamette, we are riding the MAX because my best guy friend, Jay, decides that the entire reason he's accompanying me to Portland is so he can ride both the MAX and the streetcar in the same trip. As a result, the fifteen minute ride to dinner takes forty-five, exacerbated when we take the streetcar just because, and then have to walk back to where we started. But all that comes later.

After the MAX crosses the river, we stop in the Pearl District, where rows of trendy shops and high-priced lofts crowd the area's less successful residents. The train's doors whisper on their sliding tracks, and I gaze idly at an eight-foot high Banana Republic advertisement until a massive, inebriated woman obstructs my view. She slings a hank of greasy, dishwater blond hair over her shoulder like a sack full of dead fish, shouting loud enough to rouse the train's dozing passengers. Three or four men, all of whom appear loosely associated with her, follow, coming to roost along the opposite rail.

"I wanna fuck," she announces to no one in particular. "Do you wanna fuck? No -- not you," she says, catching the shocked expression of an elderly woman. "Not you, sweetie."

Behind her, one of her cohort makes a snide remark. Unfortunately, he is too drunk to be intelligible, but she gets the gist. "Hey!" she yells, and gets up with her fists balled.

Jay and I exchange sidelong glances. "Toldya we should've grabbed a seat up front," I muttered.

"Whatever," Jay says. "Maybe I *wanna* f--" but he's cut off by the woman's outraged caw. "Hey, you owe me money!"

All eyes on the train rotate towards the front of the train, where a scrawny man with a rat's nest of white boy dreads is slinking towards the door.

"Oh boy," her friends jibe, "Go get 'im." They laugh, but we're watching as she storms towards the front of the train. Naturally, the doors close as she reaches him, and he proceeds to turn on his heel and walk the length of the train with extraordinary poise, never saying a word. She follows him, a torrent of curses filling the space between them. "My money! 'Scuse me," she adds, knocking past a pair of necking teenagers.

We decide that perhaps we will exit at the next station...which we do, followed promptly by the skinny guy, the raging drunk, and all of her oafish friends, who lollop behind her like junkyard dogs. Only, not so bright.

I turn to say something to Jay, but the next thing I know, she's shouting for her guys to "get him!"

"What's in it for us?" one asks.

"Bitch owes me $80!"

We swap skeptical glances with strangers. Eighty bucks split five ways is, well, apparently enough, because their quarry comes skidding by like a fox going to ground, followed in hot pursuit by a pair of hounds. One of them appears to be carrying a white tube sock filled with quarters. He raises it over his head and begins swinging in irregular ovals.

"This can't be," I say.

"Oh, but it can," Jay replies.

"It's broad daylight! It's seven in the evening! Are we seriously watching two grown men chase some guy with socks full of quarters?"

A dull, metallic thwock removes any doubt, as the prey suffers a glancing blow to his shoulder in front of a Crate & Barrell. Fortunately, the man swinging the sock is too drunk to aim. Moreover, the sock itself is not designed for full-scale deployment, as the heel seam splits upon impact. A shower of quarters cascades onto the sidewalk, and the scrawny man turns tail and vanishes down another street.

I look at Jay, who's sniggering. I can't say that I blame him. Along with a crowd of people dressed for the opera, we still can't quite decide if what we've seen is funny, disturbing, or a bit of both. We look up the street, where a bored cop leans against a low wall, oblivious to the entire scene. Behind me, a new person who's just entered the scene tells his friend, "They better not bring that back here. I will own their sorry asses."

"Welcome to Portland," I mutter.

Jay turns to me, and now he's laughing uncontrollably. "When they ran past me, I really wanted to say, 'Naw, homie, don't play that'...but I kinda figured they'd turn their sock weapons on my sarcasm."

"A wise decision."

"The odds just weren't in my favor. Besides, I doubt you could take on the loudmouth."

"Come on, you know I fight dirty."

"But quarters-in-tube-sock dirty?"

"You're probably right." We turn and walk up the street, past the officer, who's turned his attention to a troublemaking trio of eighty year-olds.

Maybe should have head examined soon

Hmph. Is suspicion that long arm of Cambridge extends here to taint existence, as crickets not even bothering to chirp in response to re-re-created resume. Is fine. Do not need crickets. Self worth can be restored solely by presence of cats with bad grammar.


Shut judgemental mouth. Does not indicate serious decline in cultural taste. Rather, clearly demonstrates ability to appreciate not only bourgeoise art (e.g., Fellini), but also proletariat (e.g., Aqua Teen Hunger Force). Possibly is harder to understand talking meatballs than shrewd Italian men with mother issues anyway. Do not begrudge me, snobby artsy people.

No, have not been maybe cat-sitting too long. Ringo and Elvis understand needs.

_______ has died

God, I hope this makes sense to at least one of you, because revealing the full extent of my geekdom isn't worth it unless I can drag others down with me.

When I look back on middle school, very little stands out -- apart from the constant bullying, the clumsy colt's body, and the electric green braces. Somehow, I thought that last one would be awesome because the X-Files season finale was coming up, and these were sort of an alien green, thereby broadcasting my undeniable hipness to the world at large. It's shocking, really, that the first day I showed up with my new bands, the girl in the front row asked if I was cultivating a new fungus for our science class.

What does stand out? Hunching over my computer playing the Coolest Game Ever. C'mon: if you didn't die of dysentery, you might be able to pick a crapload of berries before fording the Columbia on your way to pixellated utopia. It pleases me to no end that there are several dozen Facebook groups devoted to Oregon Trail, because obviously all of us geek kids have become cool, fully functional people in the current day.

And it's not like I named my characters Fox or Mulder or anything stupid like that. Sheesh. I had a little more sense, please. My wagondriver's name was Duchovny. Today, having reached the stage in my life where I'm actually purchasing adult-looking clothing, I would christen my OT characters with names that acknowledge the difficult road they faced as they trudged through their two-dimensional landscape, a place where oxen perished in three feet of water. The names would be completely unrelated to television fantasies and would instead invoke images of bravery and all-American courage, like...erm...Jamie. Or Apollo. Who is a Greek god, after all, and was long before a far more attractive character adopted the moniker.

'Scuse me. My sister just died of snakebite.

And now, a little lighthearted rebellion

C'mon, peeps, how can you not vote for that guy on American Idol (the one with the hair and the not-so-much singing) when the site advocating for him gets great fan mail like this?

I was so mad Wednesday night when they announced that Sanjaya was not in the bottom three and therefore NOT GOING HOME THIS WEEK that I was shaking and in a flood of emotional rage caused by this STUPID website and the people that keep voting for Sanjaya I threw my glass of coke at my FREAKING BRAND NEW 65" HD TV and NOW IT DOESN'T WORK. So now not only is Sanjaya still on American Idol for another week, thanks to you jerks, I can't even watch the show and the TV warranty won't cover the damage from what I did. THIS SITE CAUSED THIS PROBLEM SO YOU SHOULD PAY FOR A NEW TELEVISION, which should not be a problem since you are making so much money by trying to ruin American Idol. Please email back and tell me how you want to pay for the TV. I have not been able to sleep since Wednesday and I don't think I will be able to until you pay for what you did and Sanjaya is kicked off the show. Please do the right thing and help me.

*AND*

Listen we were talking about vote for the worst at my Bible class (my teacher is a huge american idol fan) and you people are the spawn of satan. you all are stopping melinda dolitle from a million dolars. she is a wonderfull person who cares about everything like God and Jesus and u people are stopping her from winning. sanjaya is a evil satan worshipper who doesnt beleive in God and he will go to hell JUST LIKE YOU PEOPLE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! SO GO AWAY AND DONT EVER COME BACK.

C'mon, fellow spawns of Satan. Please do the right thing and help me take this show to new heights by letting those judges know what we really want: an end to this fraking nightmare that's inhabited my television for far too long. Now, if I only had the slightest understanding of how to vote for anyone; I just tried and failed, so I guess I'll have to use my satan-worshipping skills to fix the voting machines this time.

Hitting the trails

It's mid-morning, and I am running the dirt path that loops around the city zoo's outer fence. The trail is shaded by many cedars, doug firs, and red alders; I flit from sun to shade and back again, while a herd of elk stares from the slopes of their enclosure.

The last quarter of the trail is a jagged uphill stretch, riven by exposed roots. By the time I get halfway up, I'm shattered. Suddenly, I recall the last time I ran the trail -- another jogger ahead of me ran this part backwards, and he seemed less worse for the wear when we both reached the top. Besides, isn't backwards running supposed to be en vogue, better for the shins, and all that?

I glance up the hill. No hazards in sight, no major roots coming. On rubbery legs, I spin and propel myself up the hill, keeping within a few inches of the fence. Suddenly, my legs are pumping faster and easier than ever. This is great! This is fantastic! Effortless, even! I don't know why I don't do this more--

SMACK!

Everything, from my head to my calves, hurts. I fall forward, but catch myself before I bite it in front of some sort of weird deer with a foot-long, fuzzy tail. Confused, I spin back around. The open trail I saw is not so open: I have run into a tree. A tall, very round tree with fissured bark. The deerthing looks amused. Perhaps I need new contacts.

I am back at my neighbor's house now, cat-sitting. By cat-sitting, I mean toasting my legs in front of the fire while two throw-pillows sprawl bellies-up beside me. That's the beauty of watching cats. You don't have to do a single thing, except occasionally poke your charges to make sure they're still alive. But the head, it sort of hurts, and sadly I couldn't remember why until I poked the sore spot hard and contemplated how I could have smacked the back of my head with such accuracy. Maybe the collision gave me temporary amnesia. I hope so.

You can take the girl out of hicksville...

Actual lyrics from a country song:

I'd like to see you out in the moonlight
I'd like to kiss you way back in the sticks
I'd like to walk you through a field of wildflowers
And I'd like to check you for ticks

Do I get any credit for living through four years of this (high school) and still winding up as the Death Cab-loving, Sufjan Stevens-addicted, Simon and Garfunkel devotee that I am?

Digging my ditch

Last Friday, we went south of the city to visit a few old project sites, only to discover that one of our ever-rising creeks (thanks, development!) finally exhausted a client's already short fuse. He was tired of it eroding his property line and threatening the hundred year-old stack of sticks shed at the water's edge. So, he did what any rational person would do.

He made a pond.

And by "made a pond," I mean borrowed a neighbor's backhoe and dug a 10-foot hole in the middle of his yard, near enough to the creek that the crumbling bank is likely to collapse at any time. Surprisingly, officials noticed the sudden emergence of a pond where no such thing had existed previously, and they told him to fill the damn thing up again before they fined him.

But the pond, having been made, is apparently staying. The officials are probably too afraid of his massive pond-digging tools to mess with him.

His next door neighbor? That guy looked at the creek, looked at his sloping property, and decided, "Hey, I know where to build a great house! Right in the depression next to the creek!" Just to be sure he really enjoyed the full benefits of annual flooding, he made sure that nobody put any pesky stilts under his house. No sir, just wet, wet floors for that man.

Naturally, of course, both the pond and the soggy house are our faults. Stupid third parties, trying to mediate. Should've just dredged the damn creek and buried the channel in concrete.

Meanwhile, a third party is busy sabatoging our tree plantings by using deer antlers to scrape away all the bark. In February.

I really want to be there when the person's in action, just to wander up and innocently ask where all the antler-wearing deer come from in the middle of winter.

Gotta love my job. Beaver management and landowner pacification. At least I'm never bored, right?

Just another day at the office

You know, going from zero bike miles per week to 14 bike miles per day probably isn't the best decision one could make. Although, I'm not the only slightly crazed outdoorsy person in my office. Here's how my first conversation went this morning:

Me: "Hey."

Alex*: "Hey."

"How are you?"

"Not so good." Grimacing, Alex tries to stand. "I kinda busted my ankle on a run yesterday. Check it out."

I admire his battle scar, which, judging by the large purple contusion around his entire calf, is likely more than a sprained ankle.

"How're you?"

I wince. "Not great, either. Did you know that sore glutes can actually make migraines feel pleasant by comparison, when you force those glutes to propel you up one of our city's finest hills?"

Alex looks sympathetic. "How're they doing?"

"Tight as rocks."

I look at him. He looks at me. I realize it is my tenth day on the job, and I am talking to a co-worker about my butt. In an entirely nonsexual, frankly off-putting manner.

"This isn't really a normal office, is it?"

"No. Not at all."

*not his real name

Things I never envisioned explaining

Parental Unit (Male), riffling through this week's edition of the Stranger, which I mistakenly left on the coffee table:

"Look, they have their summarized takes on all of the 2008 presidential candidates."

Proceeds to read a few out loud to Parental Unit (Female), who is pointedly ignoring him. Reads anyway.

Dad: "Barak Obama: junior senator from Illinois; bestselling author; totally fuckable former coke and pot user."

Mom: "What? Former what?"

"Coke and pot user."

"Oh, yeah, that. It was all over the news a few months ago. We heard it already."

Dad, perplexed: "Yes, but what does 'totally fuckable' mean?"

Me: contemplate lengthy, detailed explanation which would include summaries of Dan Savage and Savage Love, as well as the 'Barak Obama Does Your Mama' satirical piece. Think about the latest letters to Savage Love, which included graphic descriptions of wives-of-cuckolds being 'bred' in front of their mates.

"Daughter? Honey? Do you --"

"What? No, Dad, I don't read that kind of stuff -- jeez, I mean, the thing is, there's this gay columnist, hey, has anyone seen my front door key? I think I dropped it somewhere last night. Better go look because you never know who might...um...pick it up...off our...um, floor."

So *that's* why ET's parents abandoned him

I would have high-tailed it out of the atmosphere, too, if I'd seen this.

No worries about being invaded by aliens. They'll take one look at that giant monstrosity and think, "Eh? Why bother?"

Oops

Oh my God.

As I lay in bed last night, I started reminiscing about high school and for some reason drifted into memories of how Cruel Intentions was one of the best films I saw my senior year. I remembered the stories Reese and Ryan told about how that final fight scene was so difficult for them, emotionally, that he spent the morning getting sick and she couldn't stop crying. That seemed so romantic to 18 year-old me that I've forever felt affection for them. "Cool," I thought as I fell asleep. "They're still together. Good for them."

This evening, I scanned the news online. Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe. Broke up. And it is all my fault.

I just jinxed the coolest couple in Hollywood. What kind of flowers do you send to apologize for that?

Why I will NEVER make it into the world's elite circles

Yesterday at an end-of-the-year scholarship function, one of the trustees introduced himself to me. I quickly realized that his family is one of my undergraduate school's biggest benefactors, made all the stranger because he was standing about 10 yards away from the university's Greatest Benefactor of All. This slightly smaller benefactor (only a couple buildings with his name on them -- clearly, he's just not up to snuff) was a wonderfully nice person, but I was still a bit awed by the fact that he was That Rich Guy.

Unfortunately, as a result, when he said something about going to the UW himself and then mentioned his name as if I hadn't seen it on his nametag, I blanched. What could I say? He waited expectantly for some sort of great remark about me, or world politics, or my plans to revitalize the entire downtown core...

"Wow," I said, listening to the words coming out of my mouth and unable to stop them. "I had a class in your building! I mean, not just a class but a couple...I mean, not your building, but you know, the one with your name..."

And as he looked slightly bemused, I saw my chance at piercing through the city's upper echelon evaporate before my eyes. Valiantly, I tried to recover, but the combination of complete humiliation and too much champagne had taken its toll. (Who the hell provides copious amounts of champagne but only a single tray of ice-cube sized hors d'oeuvres for vegetarians??) Behind me, two of my good friends here -- not the typical scholarship kids themselves -- tried to give me sympathetic smiles. Unfortunately, they were snickering too hard to do anything besides turn away slightly so That Rich Guy wouldn't hear them.

"I just hadn't realized--" I stopped, realizing I had almost made the fatal error of saying something along the lines of I thought everyone our buildings are named after was dead. Instead, I managed a partial save by saying that I hadn't realized how great my old school was until I left; consequently, I planned to return to the school to finish my graduate work someday. Alas, I was talking too fast and my face had turned strawberry red, so I'm sure I came off sounding like a slightly intoxicated, starstruck schoolgirl. There's a career move for you.

Naturally, just as I might have redeemed myself by actually talking about something remotely intelligent, the photographer insistently herded us away for our group photo. I withdrew politely and immediately downed my giant goblet o'champagne in one gulp.

Rich Guy probably flew home thinking it was nice of my graduate school to admit such a tongue-tied, inarticulate weirdo.

Happy Easter from the UK

That uniquely British sense of humor is alive and well in Cambridge.


Actually, I think it's more my sense of humor...excuse me, "humour"...I'm pretty sure you'd find similar cards in the US, but somehow the use of the word "arse" actually makes it funny.

P.S. They still have better chocolate here. That sorry excuse for Cadbury back home? Clearly, like beer, there's a conspiracy going on overseas. We may be the global superpower, but they'll be damned if we're going to have better culinary artery-busters!

What health threat??

Just to put you at ease, the UK is taking the bird flu issue seriously and is dealing with it in an appropriate manner.


I just realized that this won't make sense to anyone back home because none of you have ever seen Lemsip, upon which this is based...but you should! It's a wonderdrug, that Lemsip: whatever Paracetemol is, we must demand access in the US. With one magnificent, full-blown slap to the face, it will wipe out your flu, cold, distemper, rabies, whatever you contract.

That Ireland post is still coming, I promise. It's just been a slightly longer day than I'd planned, so it will have to wait until tomorrow. Sorry!

Turn of phrase

Overheard tonight during a pictionary-type round in the game of Cranium (UK edition):

"Stubble! Time! Oh, I've got it -- six o'clock stubble!"

Poor chap, he was really stunned to find out how close he'd come to the actual phrase. Whoever classifies British English, Irish English, Scotch English and US English as the same language should spend more time over here.

Under the microscope

This morning, I rolled out of bed for a weekly acupuncture appointment after a long night of television viewing, as I am in denial about the paper deadline lurking in the middle of next week. (I'm writing about multiscalar networks in climate change governance, which is about as coherent to you as it is to me...right now, my running outline is two pages of gibberish followed by rambling "Oh no! Oh hell! How am I going to write another 3000 words??" panic that I apparently decided to compose in lieu of actual work.)

Anyway, after staying up in a state of paralysis-inducing panic, I had just enough time this morning to slip into my clothes, pull my UW beanie over my mad-scientist morning hair, and race down the hill to the office.

Within a few blocks, I couldn't help but notice that every male in Cambridge appeared to be staring at me. This was particularly odd because England's version of attractive apparently is 180 degrees opposite of me. Words used to describe me here: "weird," "you know, sort of, freaky?" and "unique." These gems come straight from the mouths of friends, the same ones who've seen my passport photo and driver's license (taken all of six months ago) and gush, "Wow, you look so young and pretty there!" I don't even want to know what I look like now: old and haggish? As far as I can determine, the only thing different about my appearance now is a pierced eyebrow, which is not exactly a trait of the aging has-been.

Anyway, I was almost feeling flattered and wondering if I ought to leave the house every day in a semi-disheveled state of barely-awakeness, but then I noticed that every woman in Cambridge was also looking at me. Quizzically. They all seemed to have a question on their lips that they didn't have time to voice before we passed each other.

As soon as I saw the acupuncturist, everything became clear. I started to take off my hat and he said, "Aw, c'mon, I need a picture of you in that! D'you know it says 'Dawgs' on your head? Did they misspell it on purpose?"

I'd forgotten a cardinal rule of Cambridge: no one knows what a mascot is. People walk around in subtly-cocked berets or fluffy dead-animal wrappings (seriously, one of the most popular women's items here is a scarf that looks like forty round balls of rabbit fur strung together)...but no one wears anything that says "Ducks" or "Yankees" or "Huskies." Let alone "Dawgs."

I tried explaining mascots to him, but the whole thing about difference between the UW Huskies and the actual physical mascot Husky didn't make sense. Really, I shouldn't have tried describing the Stanford Cardinal and their redwood tree.

The great thing about acupuncture is that you lie on one of those tables with the round pad where your head rests and your face slips through so you can breathe...which means you finish the session with nice oblong lines running the length and width of your face from where you rested on the seams, like a shirt you left folded in the closet too long and forgot to iron. On the way home, even more people stared at me. C'mon, wouldn't you want to gape at the creased-face girl with the misspelled word emblazoned across her forehead?

Ecogrrl in England: why fit in when you can stand out? Or something...

Ahh, fame

Here are search terms people have used to find my blog in the past week:

• "king county bestiality" (Perversely proud to note that I'm one of only two who come up on Google for this exact phrase)
• "balliol bop" (Oops. Not the kind of PR they want.)
• "how to stop slugs coming in my kitchen" (And my blog is relevant because I apparently used the words "stop" "coming" and "kitchen" somewhere in the last 205 posts?)
• "american conversation ettiquette" (Boy, I bet I messed that person up.)
• "crapped in the hallway" (I really hope they were searching for the quote from the FEMA manager...)
  

Search engines. You can't always get what you want...

Fear the hamster

Apparently, the Dutch have spent a few too many years behind sea walls. Meet the Korenwolf, a small, indigenous hamster who feeds on grain in breweries. So admired (or feared?) is the Korenwolf that he has been granted his own beer label. Just look at him, clutching the wheat between his pernicious paws. Clearly, the Dutch have bigger things to worry about than the sea swamping their country.

Ndugu wants to know why the hell we haven't given him a brand yet, let alone a cool foreign name.

Why do they hate us?

Because.

Only an American would have the chutzpah/sheer, indomitable stupidity to try this at a party full of stuffy Englishmen.

Secretly, I admire him. Publically, I say I'm Canadian.

Would you like curry with your Eminems?

I turned on my new radio last night while I set the alarm, only to hear "Lose Yourself" playing on warp-Chipmunks speed with a tinny, southeast Asian techno beat blaring in the background. I wonder if he knows he's been remixed by some bizarre, tone-deaf dj?

Bryan and I haven't laughed that hard in a long time. I can't decide if it's endearing or just sick. All I know is I never want to hear it again!