Visa, thou art my saviour

If you've read what I have to say about diamonds, or had a few drinks with me and happened to bring up the topic of consumerism, then you probably have deduced that at my heart of hearts lies a conservative (as in thrifty, not republican) woman who prefers "use it up and wear it out" to "throw it out and buy a new one". Periodically throughout the year, and always with the first Santa I see hocking goods to hapless shoppers, I go on a rant about disposable crap that no one really needs, nothing is unusual anymore because it's all available at Wal-Mart, and as a culture we're drowning ourselves in debt to purchase this useless shit in order to distract us from the cold hard fact that although we've abolished slavery within our borders we are in full support of it elsewhere if it will save us fifty cents on a pair of socks.

But surrounding that heart of hearts is the heart of a sheep, just like every one else. I am susceptible to advertising. After all, corporations spent in excess of $149 billion last year trying to part me from my hard-earned money. They had a less-than-average success rate with me, but that doesn't mean I am not guilty of buying useless shit. And when I go on these little rants, it's not meant to be anti whatever-new-toy-you-just-bought, it's because I occasionally become completely disgusted with myself for falling for it. I try to be good and really evaluate purchases before I make them, but so much of the time I feel alone in my quest for simplicity. There are fringe groups that share my views on the collection of stuff; convents and monasteries mostly, but there are also a few communes still in existence; and there have been times in my life when I've considered one or the other of them as a life choice. (I really enjoy sex and hate the smell of patchouli, so neither truly seemed like viable options for me. Plus I don't think I'm that brave... and I am unfortunatley, and very un-Zenlike, attached to some of my stuff.)

Tonight, though, I felt justified and righteous for the first time in a very long time. I was cruising through the McMenamins movie times, looking for something interesting to watch while I had dinner (the writer's strike is either going to kill me or purify me... the jury is still out on which) when I found the new Morgan Spurlock ("Super Size Me" and "30 Days") production "What Would Jesus Buy?". I decided that it would be a great way to spend the evening, and even invited a few friends to join me. Ironically, those who declined did so in favor of shopping. So I headed out on my own and found myself rejuvenated, my heart rejoicing to hear the message of the right Reverend Billy and the Stop Shopping Choir. I heartily encourage you to check out his site, I guarantee you'll see a bit of yourself there. I know I did, and it nauseated me.

Get out of the road, you inconsiderate twat!

Typically if I'm leaving Beaverton any time after three in the afternoon I don't even bother looking at the freeway. And you can bump that up to, well, an all-day ban now that we're less than a week away from the maxed out credit cards and second mortgages that most American families call Christmas. Tuesday was no different.

I left B-tron around two and headed toward Germantown Road (my favorite route to No Po). At the intersection of Kaiser and Germantown there was an incident. Everyone was out of their vehicles and on cell phones to respective insurance agencies and family members and whoever else people feel they need to call when they survive the crumpled metal and shattered glass that is a vehicle collision. (Nope, I never say "accident". Why? They very rarely truly are.) The important thing here is that everyone was ambulatory; just their stuff was fucked up.

On one corner, facing the wrong direction, was a red four-door sedan (was a time I could tell you what it was, but it was fairly new and therefore mostly nondescript... but that's another bitchfest-cum-blog) that had been struck forcibly on the passenger side. Both doors were ruined. Their formerly slightly convex, aerodynamically beneficial, mostly pleasing shape had been radically altered to a sharp concave roughly the width of a mini-van nose.

The mini-van that matched the ravaged sedan was in all likelihood the more mechanically damaged of the two vehicles. Both headlight assemblies were wrecked, the grill was broken out in the middle and hanging limply from the upper corners like the shutters on a haunted house, and there was the tell-tale pool of steaming green liquid under the lopsided bumper that let everyone know the damn thing couldn't move itself. Next to the van, both on phones, were two women who were visibly shaken. And where was the van? Smack dab in the middle of the intersection, forcing traffic to move around it like some sort of tousled round-about. For the most part cars were moving around it, like it had always been there, but it wasn't making things easy. Since I'm a good person at heart, and I happen to drive a rig capable of towing a mini-van, I pulled around and asked the women if they needed any help moving their catastrophe to a less obstructive location. "No, no. We're fine," replied the older of the women, impatiently waving me on with her left hand as she worked her cell phone with her right.

"Are you sure? You're mostly blocking the road," I tried again.

"Yes I'm sure," she snarled this time. "We're fine right here. The fire truck is on the way."

I then excused myself from the situation, after all I know when I'm not wanted. But seriously... if you wreck your vehicle, get it off the road as soon as possible. Leaving it there is not just inconsiderate to those who can navigate safely around it, but potentially dangerous for the driver who is not paying close enough attention. And don't give me any sort of cock and bull story about how all drivers should be paying attention, because although everyone should obviously you weren't or you wouldn't be in that predicament, would ya?

The Magic Puppy

I met a magic puppy today. At first I thought she was a regular puppy, cute and lovable with long floppy ears and silky hair, but she wasn't a regular puppy. She wasn't even just an exceptional puppy. She was a MAGIC puppy.

All puppies are cute in their own right, and I've been lucky enough to own a couple of amazingly cute ones, but I have to admit that not even Loki (the walking Gund doll) was magic as well. At first I thought she was just a really adorable English Springer Spaniel puppy, black and white with silken waves and that amazing rubber-bones quality that is shared by puppies and mice. The adorableness was amped up a bit when I picked her up and discovered that her skin was actually two sizes too big for her body. So cute! She smelled bad, like a dog who's spent too much time in a crate, so that knocked a couple points off of her cuddliness.

Ben and I decided that of the three dogs upstairs she was the one worthy of hanging out downstairs and watching Elf with us, so we liberated her from her crate and headed down the stairs. I cuddled her against my chest and she wrapped her little paws around my neck and hung her head over my shoulder. I think she may have stuck her tongue out at the other dogs as I was shutting the door.

It only took a few minutes of playing with her on the mattress sofa for the smell to start to get to me, so I gave her a bath. I honestly cannot think of another animal that wasn't mine that I willingly bathed. That's weird, to just wash someone else's dog, but I couldn't take the smell any more.

After her bath Millie the Magic Puppy ran around the downstairs a bit, diving into pillows, burrowing into blankets, and generally doing insanely cute puppy things. And that's when it hit me. She'd been in her crate for an hour that I know of (longer, I'm sure, since she was in her crate when I got there), and downstairs for another hour or so, and I had yet to hear her make any noise. She also hadn't appeared to want any food or water, not even while bathing. Most animals try at least once to drink the bath water, but she didn't even taste it. And to cap it all off, she hadn't pottied, not even a little piddle. Puppies her age usually have to pee every hour, hour and a half at the longest.

I'm sure it is a scientifically proven fact now. She is actually a stuffed animal that some wonderful wizard (or witch) has put a spell on and set loose into the world. She's the Pinocchio of puppies, except animals rarely lie so the nose thing shouldn't be much of a problem. She is a beautiful solstice miracle and I have to wonder if this spell will make her more real with time and allow her to grow up, or if she'll remain a perfect floppy puppy forever.

Knock-off bikes, Samwise Gamgee, and the Mutual Admiration Society

A lot happens in a day. Take Saturday for instance, a relatively typical Saturday, nothing special but the sunshine. (O.K. Sunshine does make it more probable to do stuff... so I did... but that only means it was atypical for the season.)

I woke up around nine-thirty, as I usually do, and the sun was shining, as it's usually not at this time of year, which made my plan for the day that much easier. I had already planned to walk down to the MAX station, ride up to the Expo center, and pay the eight dollars for the Portland Motorcycle Show. I knew full well that eight dollars was more than it was likely worth, but guessing how much more is all part of the fun. However there's usually something at these things that seems worthy of making at least part of the trip. At the very least I might find a pair of riding shoes (not boots - I have giant man-calves) or maybe pick up a card from someone who can do the custom paint I want on my bike, or (the holy grail of expo finds) a great deal on a Metro scooter. I knew I was going to have to wade through a few dealers, a couple displays that have absolutely nothing to do with motorcycles, and maybe even a few groups of unruly 12-year-olds; but overall I figure it's a decent way to kill some time out of the house.

So here we are, bright sunny (and frigid) day, with a bike show to go to. I was sick late last week, so this honestly was the only thing I had planned for the day. It's a little better than half a mile to the station, which is just about the perfect waker-upper walk, and it has the added bonus of a coffee shack for hot bevvies while waiting for the train. Of course I ordered coffee from the functionally retarded teen in the shack.

Me: "I'd like a large, quad, non-fat latte please."

Her: "That's four shots? In a large? With milk? Right?"

Me: "Four shots, correct. Large, as in 20 ounce. With non-fat milk. Please."

Her: "Four shots and non-fat?" She's holding a 20 ounce cup in her hand, looking at it like it has the answers to everything in the universe, "This size. Right?"

Me: "Right." Seriously, how difficult is this? Her features don't give away any sort of syndrome, forehead seemed normal, eyes looked focused and clear. She appeared so perfectly average in every way that I have to wonder if her level of intelligence is also average, and then I begin to worry for the fate of mankind. But the sun is shining and I'm easily distracted.

While she's figuring out how to get shots of espresso from the machine, for what appears to be the first time in her life, I read the little sign next to the window. This coffee shack is run by a group called COFY (Creating Opportunities For Youth) and is designed to not only teach basic job skills like customer service and making change (both lost arts, if you ask me) but also to teach the complicated, and apparently valuable, "skilled" trade of Coffee Getter. (Barista, if you want to be particular, but whatever. Be realistic people, there's really very little skill involved. You get over-priced coffee for people and you rarely deserve a tip. Deal with it.)

Finally she manages to create a hot cup of milky caffeine, and then gets confused all over again.

Her: "Um. Large? Four shots? Latte?"

Me: (slightly perturbed that she makes everything a question, like she's completely unsure of what she just did) "That's what I ordered," trying to sound perky and upbeat. She seemed so lacking in confidence that I felt the need to reassure her.

Her: "Um. Do you know how much that is?"

Me: Crap, crap, crappity crap. Just bite your lip and help her figure this out. If she gets frustrated and leaves this job without learning how to do anything with confidence then she'll probably never learn how to say no and wind up living in government subsidized housing with a few kids who all have different dads, wondering.... Stop it. Maybe it's her first day. Maybe she's a super-shy honor roll student who is preparing to subsidize her Harvard scholarship with an easy, yet profitable, job at Starbucks. I take a deep breath and smile, "The menu out here says a regular large latte is $2.75, and extra shots are $0.25 each, but it doesn't say how many shots normally come in it."

Her: "Um, two? I think?"

Me: I cannot believe she made that into a question. Is she asking me what she thinks, or how many shots come in a large? "So that would be $0.50 extra..." I let my voice trail off, hopefully cuing her to do some simple math. She blinked twice, but otherwise there was no sign of life. "$2.75, plus the $0.50 for the shots, makes a total of..." I did it again, suddenly feeling like I should track down and hug every teacher I ever had. If this is what they deal with on a daily basis then they definitely aren't paid enough.

She blinked again. My coffee is getting cold, I'm fidgeting with the five in my hand, and I'm beginning to wonder if I'll miss the train.

Her: "Oh!" blinking several times in rapid succession, perhaps a bit surprised by the light bulb that just flicked on. "$3.25," I had hope, this seemed like a confident statement of fact, "right?"

Me: Crap. We were so close, but at least she finally settled on a price. "Sounds right to me," I smiled while handing over the $5.00. She fumbled with the cash register for a bit, finally got the correct numbers entered in, and painstakingly (as well as painfully) counted out my change. Needless to say, I didn't tip.

But I do make it to the train on time. Nearly noon, and finally I've reached my goal. The abundance of available parking does not bode well for the show, but I've come too far to turn back. With the cold winter sun somehow making it over the top of my sunglasses to scorch my retinas I fight the midday wind across the empty parking lot to find myself at the back of a line so endless that it hearkened to the days of youthful summers whose Saturdays were filled with water slides and half-priced matinees.

So maybe it wasn't quite that dramatic. But it was bright, cold, windy, and the line seemed unreasonably long. Especially when I finally made it in and found out that I'd over-paid by about seven dollars... not counting the train fare. There were several dealers there, but none with the new Ninja 250 that looks so hot online. And there was a manufacturer I'd never heard of who seemed to specialize in knock-off bikes. There were damn few choices in riding footwear and none of them included a shoe (I know they're made, I've seen them online), no one who actually did custom work, and absolutely no (and I do mean none) bikes for sale that could even be considered on sale, let alone a "deal". But the coffee had kicked in, the day was young, and my ticket was still good for another hour; so I headed back to the train.

Here's what I was thinking: hop off the train at Saturday Market, where I could swing past the Herbal Hobbit booth for some more foot cream for Dad then maybe get some lunch from a vendor. And since I was downtown anyway, I may as well swing by Powell's for a field guide to Costa Rica.

The car started filling up with hung-over hipsters and semi-clean crack-heads around Albina/Mississippi. Fortunately it was the one of the first group that decided to sit next to me, but the odor that poured off of him was overwhelming. It seemed a bit odd, because his clothes were clean, his beard was trimmed and well-kept, and he looked freshly showered, but he smelled like a brewery. And then I realized that the girl who sat across from him was his girlfriend. She was once a part of the hipster crowd, but appeared to be making a rather rapid descent into the crack-head group and something about her "I have daddy issues" voice coupled with a probable total lack of inhibition was sucking him down along with her.

Finally we arrived at Skidmore Fountain, the heart of Saturday Market. The fountain itself was overflowing with Santas, which I though was odd, until I remembered SANTACON! Seriously one of the best events ever. Hundreds of drunken Santas wandering around downtown. Next year I must participate. (What do you say faithful blog readers, care to join me for drunken Santa fun next year? It would be awesome to have both of you along for the ride. They have a site, check it out here.) I was unprepared this year though, so I stuck to my original plan and started looking for the Herbal Hobbit. They weren't where they were last year, so I continued looking... and I looked some more... and more... and then I got hungry and found a booth of English food where I ordered a tasty and delicious sausage roll and cup of tea, and then I went on looking...

All that looking and I finally had to admit defeat. Dad was not getting new foot goo today.

Whew! It takes a lot to write an entire day. Judging from how long (not very) it usually takes me to get bored when I do anything that requires concentration, and combined with how thorough I tend to be when describing something, I knew it was going to be quite a bit of work. (Thank god I'm goal-oriented or I'd never get anything done!) But I thought I could handle it. I'm finding it difficult to not just wrap this story up and call it good, but I'm trying to push through it to the end of the day. Hang tight! I promise this whole thing is going, well, nowhere!

So where was I? Um... coffee girl, check... bike show, check... methies on the train, check... Santa soiree, check... English snack, check... Herbal Hobbit (or rather the lack thereof), check... I guess that brings us to Powell's.

I should probably start off by telling you that I normally avoid retail outlets at this time of year. I don't generally do well in a crowd. As the lines grow longer and aisles get more and more crowded with consumers who are in desperate need of more stuff I become less and less patient and have frequently had to talk myself out of sporking some hapless shopper in the eye. But the sun was shining, the tea had kicked in, and blah blah blah.

I took the train to 10th because it's free and I was feeling a bit too lazy to walk up the hill myself. (I justified it by reminding myself that feet and train had been my only transportation thus far.) But once at 10th I walked the five blocks to the bookstore, waited patiently in the wind with a dozen other people to cross Burnside and spend a bit of time in the City of Books. What I didn't know was that Sharon Wood Wortman was scheduled to give a reading and sign some books at exactly the same time I was walking through the door. But I dealt with the slow flow of bodies headed to the Pearl room and made my way to the Nature section.

An hour later I had what I needed; a fold out laminated guide to the most common birds and mammals in Costa Rica. I grabbed a few post cards to put in geocaches while I'm down there, (I'm so excited to log my first international caches!) and a Street Roots from the guy outside and made my way to the streetcar stop on 11th. Yup, only five blocks back to the MAX and I chose to take the streetcar. Why? I was getting hungry, but I had no idea what I wanted to eat so I figured I could scope out some places from the protection of the car. Turns out there's no place that even looks remotely good on the track line back to Pioneer Square. Although being on the train gave me the opportunity to meet a gentleman who apparently works in the super-secret-sub-basement of OHSU as a Special Agent in the Psi-Ops division of the CIA. Fortunately my stop came up before he could tell me much more; I'm pretty sure he'd have to kill me if I had any more information than I do now. Not that he couldn't track me down if he needed to. He's a psychic, for god's sake.

Meal plan number two: walk down Yamhill until I either find something tasty or return to the Saturday Market where I can hop onto a train bound for elsewhere. Seven blocks go by and I still can't make a food decision. I'm fighting my way through holiday crowds and street performers preying on the generosity of the season when a sound comes to me over the cacophony of the street. A fiddle, so clear and true, that it immediately whisked me back to Christmases as a child, with my uncle Howard playing a jaunty tune while the kids danced around the family room, and I knew what I wanted to eat. With more purpose in my step than I'd had since the bike show I hooked a left on third and headed to Kells. Lamb stew and hot tea (with a wee dram of Jamesons) always restore holiday cheer.

Braced with stew and good whiskey I was finally ready to head home so I jumped back on the MAX. At the next stop a guy got on, maybe 50, trim, well kept, and wearing a bicycle helmet. No bicycle in sight, just the helmet. That he's wearing. Buckled. I love public transportation.

Cheese and crackers! 2.300 words and I haven't even touched on the night yet! Josh, I dedicate the retelling of this day to you... and you'd better be reading it.

Back at home I showered off the grime of the city and tried to decide what to do with the rest of my evening. My cousin was in town, usually fun to drink with, but typically not convenient to anywhere I'm willing to drink at, so that was out. My firefighter friend was having a party at her house, but I didn't go to the liquor store, so that was out. Another girl was having a birthday party, but I don't really like her, so I'd already politely declined the evite. Last (but oh so definitely not least) was another birthday party hosted by one of the craziest bitches I know, but it was for the brother of someone I don't know at all, and I was somewhat afraid that Vince would be the only person there that I knew. So I finally decided on swinging by Ben and Josh's to see what their plan was. I probably would not have felt like I missed anything if instead of heading out we'd all crashed on their futon and watched movies all night. But I would have been wrong.

Ben's sick, so it's just Josh and I leaving the house, and the heater in the Honda works better than mine (all heaters - with the exception of the original VW's - work better than mine), so that's the car we decide to take. Because Josh has been drinking all afternoon I take the keys and, after adjusting the seat and scraping the windows, we set off down Killingsworth. We'd only gone about two blocks when I saw flashing red and blue behind me. Life's tough on the KW and cops usually have somewhere to be, so I nudge the Honda over to the right a bit and wait for them to pass. I was honestly surprised when the lights parked behind me and I heard "tap tap tap" on my window. Turns out Josh's plates are expired and we didn't scrape the section where the trip permit resides. I learned a long time ago to smile and be nice to the po-po, so I did, but I think if I'd winked I probably could have had a date next weekend. Too bad I'm not really into girls.

A friendly warning, and some extra-mild flirting, later we finally made it to the Alibi for some birthday karaoke. Despite the multitudes of birthdays being celebrated Vince's party wasn't hard to find. Josh and I grabbed some chairs, ordered drinks, and introduced ourselves to the birthday party. Among the people at the table were better-looking (and HILARIOUS) Gary Shandling and steroid-enhanced Samwise Gamgee. Nope, I do not mean Sean Astin. I mean the hobbit Samwise Gamgee. I didn't really talk to Samwise, but I did catch that he and the birthday boy (who looked oddly familiar, but not like anyone I can put a name to) met on Myspace fairly recently, and it seemed that he was hitting on Josh.

And it seemed the hobbit wasn't the only one who thought Josh was a cutie patootie. There was a chain-smoking, side-ponytail-wearing, fairly scrawny redhead who used karaoke cut-in as an excuse to talk to him. It was sort of cute, watching a girl get shot down. Gently, but still shot down.

Of course we sang our standard (Summer Lovin') drunkenly and with gusto before saying goodnight and heading out to a cheaper bar. The Florida Room was where I was headed when we pulled out onto Interstate but then my very drunk and exuberant passenger talked me into Georges instead. I've driven by George's several times, but when I think about stopping there I get a little scared. Turns out it's not nearly as bad as I had thought. The drinks were cheap and over poured, the bathroom was clean, and the bartender wore her mustache fairly well.

That's when the Mutual Love Fest started. And so now you can blame Josh for wading through 3000 + words to get to here because I took his drunken advice and wrote some more, and I think I'll also try to do it more frequently. I guess I'm using this space as practice, maybe with enough of it I'll get good enough to actually sell something.

Fantastic One-Liners

Comment to add your favorites, here's some of mine:

"I've got a pocket full of syrup"
~ April Coulter

"I done peed in my chili"
~Beau Bridges, 'Daddy's Dyin, Who's Got the Will?'

"Rabbit done peed on my head"
~Joseph the propane salesman, 'King of the Hill'

"Prepare to poop your pants"
~Maynard, 'Tool'

Jumping Jesus and Jehoshaphat

I went out with my friend Binkles tonight. It was weird being out with his friends. I didn't really think he had that many. I know, that's a terrible thing to say, but it's true. I mean, he's 29 and lives with his parents for god's sake! So here's the lowdown on the table:

To my right, a tall (5'8" or so) girl who had all the right equipment, but apparently didn't read the owners' manual. Her hair was a gorgeous shade of chestnut brown that appeared to be natural and, unfortunately, completely lacking in style. What should have been rich, glimmering waves was instead a limp, over-conditioned and under-styled shoulder length head covering. She seemed to have a fairly pretty face, but it was hiding behind a cheap pair of over-sized plastic-framed glasses that screamed "I'm missing bingo for this, so make it good." Her attire consisted of a frumpy cardigan in a regrettable shade of light blue, baggy stone-washed jeans and a pair of fairly stylish black strappy sandals with (Oh the humanity!) white gym socks.

Across the table was the most depressed girl I've ever seen. Not that "Oh, poor me, I'm so sad" surface depression that the goth kids seem to have perfected, but an actual depression. It both fascinated and concerned me; and then it concerned me that I was fascinated. Other than her depression, there were only three things that stood out about her. One; there was something wrong with her forehead. It protruded a bit, but only on one side; like maybe she'd been dropped on her head when she was a baby. Two; she had a really tiny waist for the size of her ass. I'd be willing to bet her waist was under 25", but her ass was easily double that. A bit of a shocker when she stood up, almost cartoonish in size. And three; she is desperately in love with they guy sitting next to her and he (of course) has no clue she exists. Probably explains her depression.

So who was sitting next to her? A tall, lanky, funny guy who seemed to enjoy telling anecdotes that kept most of the table giggling, even though it was fairly obvious that his goal was really to entertain the chunky-but-pretty blond next to him. She, unfortunately for the tall skinny guy, was wearing a wedding ring. Although I did not get the impression she was actually married. For one thing, it was just a plain band, not an engagement set. Not that that's completely unheard of, but she didn't really seem like the type to swim that completely against the stream. But the kicker was that she didn't correct the person who said "your boyfriend..." She seemed personable enough, with her major dettractant being a laugh that brought to mind not the traditional hyenas but instead a flock of agitated emus. The truly bizarre thing though was that the girl next to her had the exact same laugh. Which was actually rather fortunate for her as it is the only thing that distinguishes her from any other guitarist girlfriend.

Which brings us to the guitarists. First of all, they were the most talented "come see my friends play" players that I've ever been talked into seeing. And they appeared to have stepped straight out of the early 90's. One looked like Matt Dillion in Singles, complete with frizzy hair and the vacuous, dorky laugh. The other seemed to be cultivating a Jesus of Suburbia sort of look that was helped along by long, wavy, golden brown locks, a goatee just long enough to be "rock and roll" instead of "trendy", and a rosary. Yup, a rosary. I haven't seen anyone who wasn't also wearing a habit wear a rosary in public since Madona hit the scene. When I saw a glass of water come his way from the waitress' tray I thought perhaps he was thinking of skimping on his bar tab. Predictably, his jeans were more holes than coverings, some from wear but others obviously contrived. It wouldn't have surprised me in the least to find out he'd shown up in a Camero SS with T-tops, graduation tassel bouncing joyously under the rear view mirror.

And I haven't even started with the rest of the bar patrons...

Call me a speciest, but I'm so not down with the "zoo" thing

Thanks to the wonders of Netflix I was, umm... blessed?, no; graced?, definitely not; I guess I'm going to have to go with plain, old "delivered" as the adjective here. I was delivered the recently released award-winning documentary "ZOO". I can see why it was honored at both Sundance and Cannes, Robinson Devor has made a creepy-beautiful-weird-stunning-disturbing piece of poetry for the eyes. The subject matter, wrongly described by Netflix as bestiality, is still in the category "things I can't quite wrap my mind around" for me, but I am a little closer to grasping the fringes of the edge of the shawl that covers understanding.

In short, ZOO is about Kenneth Pinyan (aka "Mr. Hands"), whose death was a direct result of damage done to his colon by allowing his horse to sodomize him. Technically; bestiality. But Pinyan's death was simply the thing that brought everything else out into the open, and the film is really about the "everything else". What is everything else? What else, really, could there be? There's so much more than I imagined, so much more than I really needed to know about, so much more that I don't really get.

After watching it, I had to do some research. Devor tastefully skirts around the edge of the sexual aspect of the film by using artful misdirection and innuendo so there's no visual burned into your brain that you later wish you'd never seen. However, I've been around the internet for a while now and it's been years since I wished I'd never seen that particular visual and I wasn't about to give myself a refresher course. No, what I needed to research was zoophilia, of which bestiality is only a small (and often unindulged) part.

The thing with these guys, apparently somewhere between 6% and 10% of the population, is that they feel they have a relationship with a specific animal. They are not people who love animals in general, or love a particular species of animal; nor are they people who simply have a desire to exploit an animal sexually. These people; zoophiliacs, to be specific; are in love with a specific animal. They feel they have a relationship with the animal. That particular animal. There are enough people who openly fall into that category, in fact, that you can find a gallery of "wedding photos" on marry your pet. (Yup, there really is an internet site that will perform a wedding for you and your chosen animal spouse. I feel I need to point out that it has a sister-site though... divorce your pet.)

And that's where they lose me. For some reason this phenomenon seems to happen most often with horses and, surprisingly, men. I grew up with horses, I know the soft blowing sounds they make that carry on the night air like whispers, I know the comforting way they can drop their head over your shoulder and give you a "hug", and I know that if you ask it correctly a horse will willingly go against it's instinct and do something unnatural for you. Be it allowing you to ride it (not something they're born knowing); or riding willingly towards something dangerous, such as fire or a bunch of dogs (horses are flight animals); or something a bit more unnatural, like mount you. I also know that the common thread of all things that don't occur naturally is training. Sure, you may "love" a particular animal, they have personalities as unique as people's after all. But how do you know they love you back? How can a trained response be considered love? If "love" means to you specifically conditioning behaviours into your partner then I can understand how the unpredictable nature of free will is something you might find unsettling in human relationships, but I still don't see how you can call it love.

I know, I know. I've spent a lot of time bitching lately.

From Halloween to Mother's Day is what I like to call "Diamond Season". You know, that time of year when every other commercial on the air is for either a jewelry store, a diamond conglomerate, or something else diamond related that is specifically designed to make (traditionally speaking) a man feel inadequate for not being able to afford something so large it borders on tacky and ostentatious and to make a woman feel unloved if she hasn't been given one that fits into that category.

I have several problems with this. First of all, diamonds are not rare. In fact they're far from it. You have been brainwashed by Tiffany's and De Beers to think that they are, but take a look around. How many adults do you know who don't own at least one? To me, a diamond engagement ring says "You're just about as special to me as pretty much any other American woman".

Second of all, in an effort to keep up with our insatiable demand while making a few bucks for themselves (mostly in order to fund one misguided revolution after another) African nations have perfected a system of slavery and abuse to mine the damn things. (Yeah, "Blood Diamond" was not only accurate, but I'd say it was a bit on the rose-colored side.) Sure you can get a diamond that's certified "conflict free", but if you believe that little piece of paper then I've got some beachfront property in Arizona for sale.

And finally, Halloween to Mother's Day is a long damn season! That's like seven months and change. It's no wonder people believe the propaganda about how necessary diamonds are to your life when we're bombarded with advertisements for most of the year.

You don't like the world we live in? You think there are a few things we need to change? Start by saying no to corporate brainwashing, and what better place to start than with a useless piece ornamentation that actually kills people on it's way to your under appreciated jewelry box.

My own personal hell

I came to my parents' house this Thanksgiving weekend, as I do every Thanksgiving weekend, to chill with my family and to hopefully carve out some time to have sex with the same guy I've been having sex with for the last twenty years or so. Always, on the long drive over, I anticipate spending that first quiet evening chatting with my folks and my brother before the social whirlwind starts up. When I pull into town I habitually call to see who wants a coffee from Dutch Brothers and we all sit down over quadruple lattes and catch up.

I made the phone call from the north end of town, picked up lattes for Mom and myself, and headed to the house to do just what I had planned to do. I was barely in the door, relaxing on my favorite spot on the couch, unshowered (travelling in a Jeep with a dog, even with the top up, can be grungy business so I typically shower when I get to my destination), yesterday's hair pulled back into a pony tail of static electricity (it's dry on this side of the mountains), yesterday's eyeliner smudged under my eyes, and a stain on my jeans from where I dripped a bit of chipotle mayo during my driving lunch. So there I am, looking like the proverbial "something" that some wretched cat dragged into a lonely woman's house once, when Craig and his wife Jaime (incorrectly pronounced "Jamie", which is what her dyslexic mother meant to name her). It's been about a year and a half since I've seen or spoken to them, and honestly I could have gone the rest of my life happily without today's little reunion.

Whoops... you're gonna need a little history here. Craig was two years ahead of me in high school, and we dated briefly my sophomore year. We went to second base under the bleachers at a baseball game once, and when he figured out that was as far as he was going to get he dropped me like a hot rock. Didn't exactly break my heart. Even before I went through with the "love 'em" I was always o.k. with the "leave 'em" part. After he graduated he joined the Navy (no, not ALL sailors are gay) and I finished school. Flash forward to my college years and he's back in town, showing up at all the same parties I'm at. Somewhere in there we started hooking up. And then we stop because he thought he was going to get a commitment out of me, but by now he and my brother are good friends so he's still hanging around. And he's a good guy, fun to hang out with, easy to talk to. We're friends.

Then he gets married to the bat-shit-crazy girl that he knocked up. Surprise surprise, that ends in a bitter divorce that takes what little property he owns and most of his cash is going to child support so he needs a cheap place to live. I have a house downtown and could use a little extra pocket money so I rent a room to him. And we start hooking up again. I still won't make a commitment, and he's o.k. with that considering the divorce, and things go on happily for a while. We're still friends, just friends who occasionally have sex. When he met Jaime I was genuinely happy for him. Hey, I didn't really like her (still don't), but he seemed happy so I was happy for him. Not only did they seem like a solid couple, but it got him out of my house, because even friends can't live together forever.

So years go by, we chat at least once a week, but it starts to wear on me. Mostly because he can't understand that I still prefer to be alone so he starts to get patronizing, and that just pisses me off. For the most part I blow it off because we've known each other for so long. Then he shows up on my doorstep one evening, needs a place to crash. He'd come to Portland to deal with some kid drama and felt like having a few drinks rather than driving home. Of course I tell him he can stay, and offer to take him out for a drink or two, which turns into five, which turns into ten, which turns into calling a cab and passing out on a sidewalk, which turns into half-remembered and completely un-enjoyed drunken sex. I wake up in the morning more than a little disgusted with myself. I know I didn't initiate the sex, but still. This is my married friend, and as far as I know he's not a cheater. Plus, knowing him as I do, I know he thinks this gives him some sort of hold over me. But THEN I find out that not only does he cheat on his wife, but he'd been cheating on her with her mother and I can feel that bit of disgust growing and shifting firmly onto his shoulders. So I ask him to leave my house.

There are phone calls and chats for a while afterword, but they're less and less frequent because I make up excuses to cut them short. The birthday following that little misadventure I have a small BBQ at my parents' house, and they just happen to stop by. And he goes on and on about how old I'm getting until I just burst into tears. That did it. I didn't talk to him after that.

Until this weekend, when once again they just show up at the house. I'm looking like a tumbleweed, and not smelling much better, and there's no real hope for that to change much before dinner now. I did excuse myself to wash my face, change my clothes, and do something with my hair, which unfortunately Craig took as a really good time to trap me in the bathroom and try to make amends. I really didn't want to cause a scene, so I went with "I haven't really forgiven you for my birthday", and called it good. Things will never be the same, but it appeased him.

And then part two walks through the door. My long term relationship that has never had a commitment. Now he does cheat, I know and accept that about him (it's why I'll never make a commitment to him, even if I were inclined to promise myself to someone else for any length of time), but we have something. Something I can't even really explain. There's love between us, no doubt about that, but there's no jealousy, no possessiveness, and very few expectations. One of those expectations is that we don't meet whoever the other one is dating. Occasionally it's unavoidable, but in general we try not to let that happen. Turns out the other people in our lives are very perceptive to the amount of sexual tension between us, usually makes for a very uncomfortable conversation later. On my end I can honestly tell someone that we have history, but as long as I'm with (insert name here), then I'm done with him. He usually tells girls pretty much the same thing, sometimes resulting in them showing up on my doorstep because he also has a penchant for the psycho girls.

Of course he's not alone this evening, he's got the girl he's been dating with him. And, as the cherry on the cake of my day, two of her kids come tumbling in behind them. So now I'm stuck in the house with a guy who still somewhat disgusts me, his wife whom I don't like at all, the other woman, her two bouncing, squealing, crying, spoiled, in-constant-need of discipline kids, and my usual stress reliever is sitting across from me on the couch, texting apologies while I'm trying to disappear into the rocking chair.

Seventh circle, baby.

What's the deal with babies?

Anti-baby women have made sporadic appearances in mainstream television shows for a while, but they're always the same character... comic relief sidekick to a friend having a baby. (Samantha from Sex and the City ring a bell?) But I have to tell you that they're based on real women. Namely, me.

Recently I talked to my doctor about having my tubes tied. I then shared this thought with a couple of friends and it went over like a fart in a car. The second it was out of my mouth I wished I hadn't told anyone. One immediately projected her deepest, most secret wish (and by "secret" I mean "unvoiced, but obvious to everyone who's paying attention") for herself onto me and said, "What happens when you meet the right guy and you finally settle down? You'll want to have babies!" There are several things wrong with this statement, and it only starts with the fact that I don't want to have babies. The other major problem with it is my view on long term relationships, but that's a story for another time. The other friend, who is great at being the devil's advocate, had a million questions all boiling down to "are you really sure you don't want to have one?" She finally accepted that I don't, even if she doesn't seem to understand it.

Well if I had any doubt about my lack of maternal instincts they were cleared up last night. I went to a housewarming party for my dear friend Brent, who's insanely hot brother recently produced another tiny piece of fruit from his loins. Cindy, Brent's mom, brought this tiny, swaddled, alien down the stairs to meet the guests. I watched with mild curiosity as he was passed around receiving oohs and ahhs and cooing nonsense noises from people. Nearly everyone who held him projected an air of wonder and jealousy. A "Wow, this is a tiny human and I wish he were mine" sort of thing.

And then the baby came to me. I didn't want it, but there it was, suddenly being gently transferred to my arms, "be sure to support his head" (It's not that I don't know how to care for one!). And as he lay there, head supported with my elbow, blankets wrapped and trailing over my lap, I had only one thought. "What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?" Seriously, I had no urge to coo, no feeling of protectiveness, no twitching in my uterus that made me want to squeeze one out for myself. Nothing like that. So I told his mom that he was the worst toy ever and handed him off to someone who would appreciate him.

I still don't know what the deal with babies is for everyone else, but for me it's clearly "no deal".

Holy Hell My Fingers HURT!!

Last night Josh and Ben came over and we played some guitar hero, Ben cooked dinner (a delicious corkscrew pasta with a home made marinara, mixed baby greens with Cesar dressing, and garlic bread), and we hung out here at the house for a bit. It was nice. Later, Josh and I went to the Florida room for a couple drinks and on the ride over we were listening to some Black Crows and I mentioned, off hand, that I'd like to learn the guitar.

Now I've never actually played the guitar before. When I was a kid I would sometimes make some noise on my uncle Howard's guitar - until he'd hear me and take it away. That man is really protective about his instruments. So here I am, with my soft programmer's fingers. Sure they see more than their fair share of labor, but I'm pretty conscious about wearing gloves when I'm working with them, so they are soft and supple and feminine. But all that aside, Josh says he'd be totally stoked to teach me what he knows.

So, a bit of whiskey later, we head back to Josh and Ben's house and start my guitar lessons. Thank god for the whiskey or my fingers would have fallen off last night. I woke up this morning and picked out the one recognizable tune I know (the intro to Smoke On The Water) for a bit, then switched to my two chords. That's right, two. That's all I know. One's a G, and I think the other one is an A... but I wouldn't swear to it. And that's when it hit me. The pain in my fingertips that the whiskey had numbed last night. Ten minutes of pressing steel-wrapped strings against the neck of my borrowed guitar and DAMN! I can barely type with my left hand. But everything worth doing is painful to learn, and an old guitar seems like a good way to pass the time when I'm on the road.

So bring it on. Bring on the pain, bring on the callouses, bring on the frustration and the joy of learning something new. Bring it all on. I can handle it.

A Well-Worn Path

Most of the time we use "off the beaten path" to describe a hole-in-the-wall place that's not well trafficked, but still worth the trip. But occasionally OTBP isn't exactly accurate. Sometimes the path is so well worn by people going from point A to point B that they have forgotten to check the local places in between. Especially when there's the comfortable light of the golden arches, or the red roof of the pizza chain down the block. It's not good food, some would say it's not even food, but it's familiar and predictable and safe. It provides "un-hunger", but not much else. How much better off would we be if we pushed outside the predictable and the safe?

Tonight that's exactly what I did. I had a craving for shrimp and sure, I could have taken a relatively short drive to a Red Lobster, or in the other direction Joe's Crab Shack, and had safe and predictable if not great food; but I'd rather take a chance on unknown and potentially awesome. Plus, I prefer to support local businesses whenever possible. So I popped open Google Maps and found The Fishwife on Lombard. Total hole in the wall, but everything is prepared fresh and on-site. Including the desert. I had a slice of pumpkin cheesecake that was insanely good and it came with a dollop of real whipped cream. Not from a can, not even from one of those co2 charged things, REAL whipped cream. The kind that requires heavy cream, a bit of sugar, and a good mixer.

Take a chance tonight. I bet there's a little place like The Fishwife in your neighborhood, you should try it out.

I have syrup in my pocket

That was one of the first things April said when she hopped into the Jeep today. That's what I love about her, that she can make it until 12:30 without realizing she has an open single-serving of Mrs. Butterworths kicking around in the pocket of her tailored wool coat. I can sort of understand popping the syrup into a pocket when getting a quick breakfast to go at the deli, but that's not the sort of thing you tend to forget about... and then sit on.

As usual her life is a whirlwind of activity, travel for work, selling her house and trying to find a place to move to, drama with her oldest and youngest sisters, a giant Mastiff puppy, a fiance she doesn't have time to marry, and all the usual rigmarole that goes along with life. I haven't really seen much of April in the last couple years, with the largest gap being a year long only to be awkwardly broken with the sudden, but not entirely surprising, suicide of her mother. Talk about an awkward phone call! Not to mention the funeral. But that's how good friends are. The truest measure of a friend is someone you can back-burner for a year and then call out of the blue when you need emotional support. There are people I speak to way more regularly, some of whom I even hang out with, who wouldn't rate an appearance at a funeral for me.

I've digressed. The whole point of this was that I have rarely heard a phrase that sums up those truly hectic, crazy, discombobulated days better than, "I have syrup in my pocket".

A Pirate Stays Home

What is it about travel? Why do we feel the need to leave our homes and spend a day a week a month exploring somewhere else? We spend our time at home isolating ourselves, closing off our properties to neighbors and passers-by. Gone are the days when people walked freely on their streets, chatted idly with the people they passed, gathered with their neighbors to celebrate holidays or special occasions. Sometimes we try to connect, block parties, neighborhood rummage sales, but rarely do we follow up on those connections so they falter and fail over time and we return to our isolated lives, not unhappy because we do not know what we're missing.

But we look for that missing piece to the puzzles of our lives outside our home areas. We blame the lack of connections on the city we live in. It's not my fault, I try to be friendly but these people don't get me, city life is not about community, I'm all alone in a sea of insulated isolated selfish people. So off we go. We pack the car, we hop a plane, or if we're feeling really adventurous we'll go to the depot and buy a train ticket to somewhere, anywhere, a destination we cannot speculate on but the reason is always the same. To see what life is like over there. Sure the reasons given are varied, to visit family or friends, to conduct business, or to participate in something that only that locale has to offer, but at the core we all want to see what life is like there, if it's better than here, if the people are friendlier or nicer, or if the jobs pay more, or if the scenic value is greater. Or maybe we go for the opposite reason; to see people even more unhappy than we are to make our lives seem more significant. Either way it all boils down to the same thing.

I propose we stay in one place. Stay home, foster relationships that are close to our proximity, get to know the attractions that are close to home. Wherever you are there are places you haven't been and people you haven't met. Get to know them, feel comfortable in them, before you wander off to other places and try to connect with other people.

Driving over Mount Hood on HWY 26

It's a drive I've made at least a thousand times, back and forth from my home in Portland to my parent's house in Bend. When you make a drive that many times you tend to blank out long stretches of it, taking for granted the majestic rise of Mt. Hood, the lush green of the forest and its stark contrast with the high desert on the east side, and the way that Smith Rocks looks like a giant sleeping dragon when you approach it from the north. But occasionally something happens to wake you from your auto-pilot-induced daydreams.

That's how today's drive was. As Thea and I started out in this crisp fall morning we noticed something different. Something that seemed to override the urge to just be home; something that wakened the senses to a change coming; something fresh and new and exciting. So many times we've made that drive with the stereo loud enough to drown out the roar of the Jeep's 33" tires, me singing along with whatever my trusty iPod chose to play, her curled against the back of my seat and sleeping peacefully. Was it that first sniff of winter coming, the precursor of the cold that is more sensed than felt? Or maybe it was the turning of the leaves, their colors ranging from a pale yellow to fire red that stands out all the more for the contrast of the deep green of the pines you find the higher you climb. Or perhaps it was simply the excitement of a plan. Not just my plan, my dream of paying off the house and quitting my job to travel around North America, but also my brother's plan. Over the weekend I decided to risk a portion of my future on his and invest some cash into his custom bike business.

Things are happening, changing, taking shape, and I can smell it on the wind as surely as I can smell the coming snows.