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.

psychology today

In a last ditch effort to do something productive today beyond bush-whacking around half of a lake with C. (which is what I did earlier this evening), I offer a blog post.

Side note regarding lakes: I discovered the lake this afternoon and sat on the dock with my feet in the water (since we are now experiencing summer weather after what felt like two weeks of winter, right in the middle of July) and I ate cherries and spit the stones into the lake and apparently I've accelerated or exacerbated GLOBAL WARMING or something by doing this. You know, small actions piling up over time like refuse in a porta-potty.

How do I know this? C. told me. As a result of my carelessness the lake will dry up, a cherry tree orchard will infest the remaining mud flats and a zombie desolation will rise from the entwined corpses of two rotting herons. More or less.

Anyway, while my soul worries that one out, here I am, sitting with the dogs. I. is being adorable and obedient and lying prone at my feet. I have banished T. because he was eating poop again and lord knows dog breath is bad enough without fecal matter thrown in on top. Not sure where W. is, but he's only ever in two places: foot of the stairs or under the bed. He's the type of dog that rolls over on his back every time he sees you: "You are my master. Here is my stomach. Slay me, oh great shining one, if it be your pleasure."

I started out this post thinking I would list my favorite movies. It seemed like something I should do. It was, in fact, a very important idea ten minutes ago. I'm bored with it now, but one habit of highly successful people is to see a project through to the end and not leave a whole lot of unfinished stuff shimmying about and embarrassing the family. I think I should stop reading "Psychology Today". It's a bad habit I picked up this afternoon.

Movies, my favorites. No particular order:

1. Bambi (Many's the day my Kincaid House housemates came home to find me curled up like an unhappy and slightly asthmatic baby in our bowl chair, wrapped in blankets, inches from the TV with my VHS copy of "Bambi" playing on repeat, the strains of "Love is a song that never ends" echoing through our cold and empty house. Oh college days.)

2. Lawrence of Arabia (There was that Camp when I pretended to be Prince Feisal and Ange was Sharif Ali and nobody was Lawrence because nobody else was playing because they hated joy, love and probably America)

3. Muppet Treasure Island (Some foolish person did not believe that I could sing every single song in this movie PLUS hum the instrumental interludes. Boy did I prove them wrong)

4. The Fantastic Mr. Fox (It's just so, as it were, fantastic)

5. I'm drawing a blank. Maybe 5 is not a valid number. Let's try 6.

6. All the President's Men (Whenever I'm depressed and especially delusional, I watch this movie. It relieves the angst -- "Journalism makes the world a better place after all" -- and deepens the delusion -- "Hey! I could do that!")

7. Anne of Green Gables (I cry shamelessly straight through this movie now. Years of watching it while sick with fever, flu and all other manner of enfeebling pestilence have conditioned me to respond this way. Otherwise, I can't explain myself at all.)

Okay. I'm done. I'm bored with this game.

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On the horizon:

a. Nebraska ("Where the girls are the fairest, the boys are the squarest of any old school I knowwwwwwwwwwwwwwwwww!" etc. School song. Stolen, apparently, from Gainesville, Florida. Dirty east coast lies, I say.)

b. Two reporters are leaving the paper. One goes to retire. The other goes to OPB. August is going to be busy.

c. I can't find my tuner and thus can't tune my ukulele with ease and accuracy and thus my joy is diminished. All that's left to me is a narrow bed in a strange house with a poop-eating dog.

d. Good night.

prehistoric times

Rabbits In Walls Children's Theatre presents An Educational Component:

"Life in Prehistoric Times"

Chapter 1: Rodney is late to the board meeting.



Chapter 2: Winston accidentally incites revolution when he quotes The Communist Manifesto out of context.



Chapter 3: He approached the herd with caution, fumbling for his field notebook as the night deepened and the moon rose. "Finally!" he thought to himself. After weeks of patient watching, the duck-billed Hadrosaurs were accepting him as one of their own. He couldn't wait to see Professor Merriman's face... But alas! How was James to know the herd had gone rogue and had, in fact, been shunned by the other leaf-eating dinosaurs for months...?



Chapter 4: Another good man lost in the name of science.



Chapter 5: He took for himself a mate one lilac-scented night.



Chapter 6: Though his wife had raised the snake from an egg, Stanley refused to acknowledge "Gregor" as his son.



Chapter 7: The gods demanded sacrifice.

#151: stereoptypes, made to be broken, etc

I was recently making broad generalizations (as I often do) and I was making them about male journalists.

Male journalists: Affable, easy to talk with, hilarious (or weird and reclusive, but usually funny), sarcastic and jaded in that sly way that is probably much more optimistic than it wants to be all in the public spheres of their life...yet complete slobs in any aspect of their private life.

The person I was so boldly telling this to nodded in agreement and I felt smug.

Then I went back to my apartment.

Well slap me in the face and may I never speak again, not doing so hot, Miss Reporter. So top of the list for the weekend is a deep clean of the apartment and the answering of personal letters and emails. Perhaps even the return of phone calls too.

all I want is toast

...and I could eat it ALL day, while watching the rest of "The Pirates of the Caribbean" except I'm trying to be healthy or whatsit. I went on a 3 mile hike this morning -- completely wimpy and I was eating cherries throughout.

So it's been a busy couple of weeks.

Here are the stories...at least the ones I can remember, in no particular order.

1. I tried to go to the Gulf too. You know, reporter in the field. Maybe next time. CLEANING UP THE OIL SPILL

2. There was a message waiting for me when I got to work that morning. It said: CALL THE SHERIFF RIGHT NOW! And this was why: Attempted murder. Three suspects.

3. Here's a follow-up to that story. There will be more. The suspects were arraigned the next day.

4. In unrelated courts, a fisherman gets his fourth driving under the influence of intoxicants conviction. The mug shot is not happy.

5. More crime. Thefts at a national historical park. Who steals from a park? Also, who steals live fish boxes? Especially when you could make one yourself and it could be a family project and it could bond you back with your estranged, ungrateful children. Just sayin.

6. Do you weary of human evil? Let's look at satanic animals: A bull.

7. Oh yes, and city council. I'd forgotten about this. Usually the city reporter covers the council.

...

That's mostly all what's going on. Some changes coming, but I don't want to talk about them yet.

....

Things I just saw that I'd rather not see again:

1. A bicycle girl picking food bits out of her lover's trendy mountain man beard. In a public restaurant. At least she didn't eat the food bits, right? But then they had to get all cuddly in front of my river view.

2. White vinyl loafer-type shoes worn without socks, on the long brown feet of some fashionable young thing who was also wearing white capri pants along his legs and his girlfriends shoes and ankles across his lap.

hikecycle bicycle + a dead sea lion

Wrote this last night for you to read today. Ta da!

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Saturday means good weather, no work and a minus tide that's not quite minus tide enough for me to squeeze between two cliffs usually separated by deep ocean water. So instead of an easy route, entailing a little jog down the sandy beach, I hiked up and over the cliffs on a familiar deer trail which is usually easy (if steep). Except I hadn't counted on the sudden upsurge of plant growth over the last few weeks.

The trail was thickly overgrown with a yet unidentified Oregon plant that sends out little shoots and tendrils. These squirm around until they find another plant (preferably one across the trail from the first plant). The tendrils loop themselves around a bit of branch or twig or leaf, firm and fast, and hold on for dear God and country until a mean hiker comes crashing through and pulls them apart. Which is, more or less, what I did for about two miles of deer trail, barefoot and at 8:30 in the morning. Then I fell, I mean...gracefully slid down a sandy cliff side and got my bum and hands all dirty and discovered THIS:



If there were money in maggots...see how it's just seeeeeeething.

I feel you're not appreciating this enough.



Nom nom nom nom.

See how that maggot (right down there) is all mouth agape? "Flesh! More more more!" It's like the Sarlacc Pit.



I had to get very very close to snap these photos. I love whatever misfiring in my brain caused me to be a journalist and approach so many things in life with a sick desire to KNOW and EXPERIENCE rather than be "emotionally involved with or about." This causes problems in other areas in my life, but currently it enables me to hunt up horse carcasses, take pictures of maggots and try to talk my way into a trip to a morgue.

Did I mention today was exquisite? I offer proof and maggot-less photos