mule variations

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I bought a CD last week. I can't stop listening to it even though I've heard the songs all before years ago. I think I'm in love with the handmade component of it all: a CD. In a CD player. The kind that still has a tape deck. Will wonders never cease? When I go on long driving trips, the CD player boom box comes with me and it runs off of...BATTERIES, huge batteries. Batteries bigger than babies. Bigger than five babies.

The CD, if you are curious, is Tom Wait's "Mule Variations." How do people (Laura) not like Tom Waits? How do they (Laura) not throw themselves prostrate before his holy altar, beating their breast and sobbing, "I'm not worthy!" How does that not (Laura) happen?

Regard:

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In the last three days, I've subscribed to one magazine and bought four others: two trashy women's fashion magazines, one archaeology trade thing, and one science magazine.

I read in a book written by a journalist that people serious about their craft should read lots of...stuff. They should commit to read one weird thing each week. At least.

So...

The trashy women's magazines have taught me that OMG yes you can totally be a sex symbol (well praise God) in those jeans, but...you know...the good kind of sex symbol. Not the bimbo-y kind. In this modern feminist world you have to draw the line somewhere. Preferably, very very low.

All of the stories start with quotes, but the thing is they're all really dumb quotes. The writers aren't bad. Why are they starting with these quotes? Is it a requirement? Is it something the editors do?

"Sullivan! What's with these miles of context-establishing, beautifully written, poetic leads and opening paragraphs?! You know we can't print this! Here, watch. I'm going to just slash it all the way down 10 inches to...to...here."

"But, with all respect, sir, that's so confusing. You have no idea who's talking or why they're saying what they're saying. Actually that's the most boring part of the story."

"Well, you wrote it. Good lord, don't I have enough to do already? You're a writer for landssake. Just stick in an attribution there instead and put in a single sentence establishing the scene. Glory!"

Furthermore, in the beauty insider tips there's no point to why you have to do all this stuff to your eyelashes and the loose skin under your arm. Yet it's accepted that, Ummmm...of course you want to fix that. Of course you worry about that. Everyone does.

It looks like a never-ending course of disappointment and betrayal to me and this denial of pores seems unhealthy. The message: let them breathe, but make sure you hide them at all times. Women do not have pores...men must never discover that we do or else all is lost.

Also, these magazines are for straight-haired people and have no tips in their "8 Tips for Perfect Hair ALWAYS" for curly-hair folk. Well fine.

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You got to get behind the mule
every morning and plow

156: oh hi there

It's been a while. How long? So long ago that the last time I talked to all of you via God (aka, the Internet) I was only expecting Nebraska (as a woman expects her first child) and now (from where I sit in a coffee shop listening to some pseudo Euro techno poop probably created in fact by an indie band named [ironically] Consumerism Fist), but (I say): now, from where I sit, Nebraska is a distant memory. Almost.

I was sitting in court next to the security deputy today and somehow we started talking about how the Fatherland smells. Probably we were talking about the weather. Out here, it's not just a formality or a preliminary conversational politeness. Instead it's more like: DEAR GOD! The WEEEEEAAAAATHER!! Why do we live here?!?!

Please note: The weather has been awful. Everyone I've talked to recently has been contemplating suicide. One of my regular sources darkly hinted at a particular gruesome form: suicide by can opener. I said it would take more effort than it was worth. Today, however, is lovely. I went on a two hour bike ride with my new neighbor and it was perfect because we're both wimps about huge hills.

Anyway.

The deputy isn't from Oregon either, and he said they could pave Chicago over (where he lived for a long time) and he wouldn't miss it. Where you're born is different, is special. Nobody better lay a hand on it. Even if you hate the heat of the state wherein you were born, it smells like every good thing that has ever happened to you. When I stood out in the damp evenings in Nebraska and inhaled that thick air full of smells and heavy with everything growing from the dirt: a green, hot air. And the lightening bugs slowly turned on and off. And cicadas whirred loud and electric. It felt like home in the way that home rarely feels. I loved it.

But I will never move back.

Because (here's the other part) I don't know how to describe the way my heart (yes, heart) rose the second I saw the Oregon geography unfold in mountains and valleys under the plane as we flew back into Portland. I couldn't stop smiling.

But. Yeah. Anyway. No more smiling. Down to the bitter cruel realities of life as of person who works at a full-time job, gift-wrapped in deadlines.

We lost two reporters. One to retirement. The other to some lame job. And by lame job I mean an amazingly fantastic opportunity and she will shine star-like and perhaps become famous. Stupid C. Here's her blog. And follow her on Twitter. Do it. I have no idea what Twitter means (philosophically) or why it seems to influence people (emotionally).

When I interned at an alternative weekly, the arts editor would give me despairing looks and "tsk" when I voiced my anti-Twitter, anti-social networking angst. She'd spin back in her chair and cue up her screen which was mashed edge to edge with Facebook whatsits, chat doodas, various instant share type thingys and lord knows what else. Things were pinging and alerting and dinging non stop.

Looks stressful to me.

But let me not detract. If you're into Twitter (even remotely) and care about what's going on around you (even remotely), follow C. Read her blog. Appreciate her blog description which I think is new since the last time I looked it was something like, "C. is a journalist." She told me she'd been instructed to sexy up the description.

It is very important that descriptions be sexy.

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So briefly, I want people to appreciate how mad it's been. Bear with me...I need attention. Or validation.

July 27-August 3, I'm in Nebraska/Iowa with THE WHOLE FAMILY. Awesome, rad and other mad greats. Behold:



Fly back into Portland Aug.3. Hang out with Tiffany downtown for a few hours. Drive back to Astoria. Get in around midnight. Wake up the next morning and go to work.

Work the rest of the week. Obviously.

August 6, drive to PDX after work.

August 7, leave PDX early in morning. Drive back to Astoria. From Astoria, drive to North Cascades National Park on a semi-self-imposed newspaper assignment. By the time I get to North Cascades, arriving at 5:45 p.m., I have been on the road since 7:30 a.m.

Attend climate change conference night of August 7 after quick intros to all the people I will be traveling with the next day. In bed by 10.

August 8, wake up at the crack o' dawn. Spend all day in the lovely almost wilderness. Climb on top of a boat cabin to take pictures. Get wet. Climb other things. Hike a lot. Interview. Photograph. Get back to my car, parked at the trail head, at 6 p.m. Still have to drive back to Astoria.

Drive back to Astoria. Get in town around 1 or 2 a.m. Get a few hours of sleep. Monday comes. I work for the rest of the week. Obviously.

At some point C. and our city reporter leave the newsroom forever and my workload goes up accordingly. 70 hours last week, I think. I stopped counting after I hit 50.

That brings us to last weekend (which, odd, feels like it happened yesterday). I went to Eugene on a whim Friday evening and stayed through Sunday morning.

Now I'm back and, wow, it's the weekend again. This week has also been jam packed, but I took Thursday and today pretty easy...or, at least, found a way to cram more stuff into a shorter period of time. If I'm being honest: I don't remember what happened yesterday. Today, though, I know I spent the morning going at full tilt. I've been beating the layout people into work for the last two weeks. We're talking 4:30, 5 a.m. It feels great. I'm so happy about my job right now. Trust me on this. It's the most fantastic, lovely feeling.

Oh man, a siren just wailed by. It made me suddenly antsy and anxious. I will resist the urge to rush back to the office and listen in on Dispatch.