tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-67979707253554792742024-03-13T21:13:47.314-07:00Cheap ArtAnonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.comBlogger54125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-45253461809220977012015-09-08T12:43:00.000-07:002015-09-08T12:43:03.332-07:00Hi Blog. Are you still here?Every so often I check out one of those books about how Creative People keep a sketchbook journal. I might as well check out books about being an astronaut. The likelihood that either of those things will come to pass is about even. Zero. The books are full of artfully casual sketches of Italian plazas in ink and watercolor, attractively surrounded by inked text. Wow. Other people have excellent handwriting.<br />
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<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NverNmpiRBk/Ve81632_DtI/AAAAAAAAIh8/hI9BTu-mmvs/s1600/sketchbooks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-NverNmpiRBk/Ve81632_DtI/AAAAAAAAIh8/hI9BTu-mmvs/s320/sketchbooks.jpg" width="240" /></a>Reasons I will never keep a sketchbook journal:<br />
<br />
1. I am far too lazy.<br />
2. People would look over my shoulder.<br />
3. If I ripped out all the embarrassing pages, all that would be left would be the cover.<br />
4. Size? Seriously? How does anyone choose?<br />
<br />
But my blog is still here. Hi blog! I missed you. Can I come back? Would it be ok if #100happydays dropped in? K. Let's do this thang.<br />
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<br />Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-20743304192472236452011-09-10T23:57:00.000-07:002012-02-24T16:56:07.939-08:00It never hurts to add an extra dog or two.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E0y1p8yePzI/TmxZqiyMjGI/AAAAAAAAB9g/adVt7FoxmTo/s1600/2dogs.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="196" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-E0y1p8yePzI/TmxZqiyMjGI/AAAAAAAAB9g/adVt7FoxmTo/s320/2dogs.jpg" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
When people hear that I write and illustrate greeting cards
they always, I mean ALWAYS, say “That sounds like fun!” And I’m not going to
deny that there is a lot to be said for working in your pajamas and seeing the
product of your labors on the gift store card rack in the Minneapolis airport. It also
doesn’t hurt to get royalty checks on work you did 5 years ago. Royalties are
my friends.
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The flip side of the coin is that you work very hard
on products that might not, probably won’t, sell. Ask any freelance artist in
any medium. And it’s surprisingly stressful. For one thing, when you're thinking, and this job requires a <i>lot</i> of thinking, it looks like you're not doing anything. Modern society requires that, unless you're inert in front of the tv, you need to be <i>doing</i> something. Something visible.</div>
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So. I was always the kid who drew pictures. In kindergarten
I remember another girl asking if I would draw a horse for her. I’m fairly
certain it wasn’t a very good horse, considering I still can’t draw horses
worth diddly. My high school notes were liberally festooned with doodles. I drew my own cartoon
Christmas cards. </div>
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But, here’s the thing. I didn’t think it was <b style="font-family: Georgia,"Times New Roman",serif;">Art</b>. I went to
the University of Oregon where the painting teacher pretty much told us to
express ourselves and then she went somewhere and drank coffee until the term
was over. For that, my parents paid tuition? One time I asked a friend of mine who was a successful
painter to tell me the difference between a painting and an illustration. She
said illustration is about the subject matter. A painting is about the paint.
That, I thought, is a very clear definition. My work is about the joke, son. So. I didn’t find out I was an
artist until I was 37 years old. How did I know? I finally got paid for doing
art. Until someone else put a value on my work, I didn’t value it myself.</div>
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In 1990 I moved in with a money-centric man who couldn’t fathom
that I did elaborate greeting cards just for my loved ones. For free. He
badgered me to submit my work to card companies until, just to silence the nagging, I assembled a dozen samples and mailed them out to several outfits
including Recycled Paper Greetings. Imagine my astonishment when four art
directors wanted to buy my stuff. Who knew? Twenty years later, the IRS thinks I’m an
artist, even if my old painting teacher doesn’t.</div>
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Quite a few people have told me I should teach cartooning.
My reply has always been a terrified look and the observation that no one has
any idea how many false starts, how big a pile of eraser shavings, or how many
embarrassing sketches it takes to produce a completed cartoon. But today I had a stab at it when I was invited to talk to a group of very funny ladies who have an annual gathering and invite someone to teach them something. Last year it was a mason bee expert. This year they got me. I told them all the stuff above and made them draw their hands without looking at the paper and heard, in turn, their hilarious senior (literally) prom and life drawing stories. And one of them offered to give me her exceedingly glamorous shoes. Today, the learning went both ways. </div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-40534613979106603792011-06-04T07:35:00.000-07:002011-06-04T07:43:20.999-07:00Are You Happy Now?<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zrDH26pSvWA/TepBCmqkuII/AAAAAAAABtA/w1WwAzWPeK0/s1600/IMG_1208.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-zrDH26pSvWA/TepBCmqkuII/AAAAAAAABtA/w1WwAzWPeK0/s200/IMG_1208.JPG" width="200" /></a></div>A few days ago I was awakened at six a.m. as, outside my little house, some guy yelled "Are you happy now??!" accompanied by a loud bang. Later in the morning I found a metallic green cell phone lying in my yard that had parted company with its battery. A short search in the bushes turned up the battery which I installed and which permitted us to read a few of the text messages chronicling the lead-up to the six a.m. phone-fling. The apparent owner was pictured, sans clothing, among the phone's photos, but I didn't recognize her as being from the 'hood. Her contact list included such characters as Dave(Hippy), clearly she knows a variety of Daves, and Ass-Munch Monhagen. We couldn't decide who to call to report the phone as found (Dave? Ass-Munch?), and now, sadly, a night in the rain and the dwindling battery have rendered it useless.*<br />
<br />
* Editor's note: after this blog entry was composed the phone dried out sufficiently that I was able to call "Mom" who, when I explained the circumstances, sighed heavily and said, "I'll tell her." I swear I could hear her rolling her eyes.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-36416666474624584562011-02-20T22:20:00.000-08:002011-02-21T16:08:27.454-08:00My Town<i>I really have a yen</i><br />
<i>To go back once again</i><br />
<i>Back to the place where no one wears a frown.</i><br />
<i>To see once more those super-special just plain folks in my Home Town.</i><br />
from <i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=85UqvuG2ojo">My Home Town</a></i> by Tom Lehrer <br />
<br />
There's something so jolly about those dancing Statues of Liberty with the big arrow-shaped <i>TAXES</i> signs who gyrate on the corner from January until April 15, grooving to their iPods in their pointy green tiaras and matching robes. They're the best thing about being stuck at an interminable light during tax season.<br />
<br />
But only in my neighborhood, home of two murders in the last three years and a recent police shoot-out over a stolen squad car, have I seen a guy in a conical purple wizard hat, adorned with silver stars and crescent moons, dancing his heart out with a sign reading <i>Guns and Ammo</i>.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-74975266288145488062010-12-21T09:01:00.000-08:002010-12-21T09:01:00.545-08:00Keeping the Marmaduke in ChristmasI would be the first to admit that I'm not a big fan of Christmas. Just when we had all had it up to here with political ads, shazam, Christmas ads. The newspaper weighs 10 pounds. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Rj_mx6YuN18/TRDcotrExWI/AAAAAAAABjs/H7PGqZNgQKw/s1600/IMG_0991.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_Rj_mx6YuN18/TRDcotrExWI/AAAAAAAABjs/H7PGqZNgQKw/s320/IMG_0991.JPG" width="240" /></a></div>But everything has a silver lining and by silver lining I mean giant, internally lit, inflatable yard decor. Within dog walking distance of my house there's a rooftop Santa on a motorcycle, Frosty the enormous inflatable Snowman, a six-foot snow globe, and best of all, Marmaduke. I mean, what's more Christmasy than Marmaduke? Second best is the potentially-inflatable Santa down the road apiece who has yet to be inflated. He lies, face down, in a capacious field as though he has overdosed on sugarplums. All that's lacking is crime scene tape.<br />
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Fa la la la la.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-19633060435901382002010-12-05T14:34:00.000-08:002010-12-05T14:34:41.461-08:00But Do I Need to Know the Secret Handshake?From an online review of a local Portland Eagles Lodge, posted August, 2009:<br />
<i>"Okay, seriously. I don't know why the rest of you don't join the lodge. We raise $$ for charities like the Oregon Food Bank and the Giving Tree; the booze is cheap; friendly service; free wife, and very soon a public computer terminal; pool tables, shuffleboard, Golden Tee; and hey, if you're not sold yet, we've got live bingo action and square dancing."</i><br />
<br />
Now, I don't know about you, but I wouldn't require the live bingo and square dancing as long as I got the free wife. No more vacuuming for me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-73518808867115495552010-09-17T22:25:00.000-07:002010-09-17T22:25:01.426-07:00It's the Little ThingsFalling asleep on an airplane and, when the flight attendant comes by, the guy on the aisle doesn't get any cheese crackers for you. Or maybe, just maybe, he gets your crackers and eats them himself. <br />
<br />
The guy who is just too important to shut off his electronic devices when it's time to take off (phone) and land (laptop). Incidentally, this guy probably has cheese cracker breath.<br />
<br />
TV news that promises "Next! Exclusive video of the amazing rescue of a camel from a sink hole!" and then plays another entire segment with commercials at both ends before you get to see the camel video.<br />
<br />
A center-seat passenger on a plane, age, oh, maybe 25 or 30, who feels compelled to put together a Lego® jet plane that requires pages and pages of instructions and involves cocking her elbows in the faces of her fellow travelers as she roots for the requisite Lego® and much rummaging around her fellow row-mate's collective feet for parts that zing into orbit during the deconstruction phase.<br />
<br />
Coworkers who sing along with their iPods.<br />
<br />
People who repeatedly say "maybe I'll be there", but can't expend enough energy to call to say they're not coming.<br />
<br />
Cilantro.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-90455679008005051982010-08-31T11:33:00.000-07:002010-08-31T11:33:26.152-07:00Product Placement<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Rj_mx6YuN18/TH1JfLePQVI/AAAAAAAABUk/33AgAnf9V80/s1600/dirtdevil.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="371" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_Rj_mx6YuN18/TH1JfLePQVI/AAAAAAAABUk/33AgAnf9V80/s400/dirtdevil.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>Those Dirt Devils®, they really do the job when you have a big mess to take care of.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-88380362553621272922010-04-20T23:33:00.000-07:002010-04-20T23:33:04.651-07:00Marketing 101Heard as I drove along, half listening to NPR, my attention mostly elsewhere, "This segment brought to you by Barnes and Noble, offering the Nookie Reader." Say, what? Did I hear that correctly? The Nookie Reader? What? You can only download Jackie Collins novels? If I had been paying attention to popular culture and its attendant gizmos, I'd have been aware of the Nook eReader, a recent addition to the proliferating family of digital book devices. But I don't (pay attention, that is). Someone, somewhere, in the B and N marketing department must be giggling.<br />
<br />
Menu item for the upcoming "Senior Prom" at the local senior center "Herb Roasted Airline Chicken". No kidding. Airline Chicken. Will they serve it on a styrofoam tray? Does it bounce? Will the next event feature "Elementary School Cafeteria Weiner Wraps"? It turns out, if I had been paying attention to food (which I don't, pay attention, that is), I'd have known that airline chicken is a type of cut that fits nicely on airline food trays. Regular people can get it without getting on a plane. Who knew?<br />
<br />
Lately I have been obsessed with all things diaper. Pee containment has come a long way in the last thirty years. So far, in fact, that it seems to have come full circle. Almost. The young women in my life are having babies and, bless their environmentally responsible hearts, they are going to upholster them in cloth diapers which, in the modern world, are a little elusive. Babys R Us has them, but you know what they don't have? Pins. Or "snappies". Or any other way to keep them on the baby. The clerk suggested I look for pins at Fred Meyer (One stop shopping!) I haven't checked Freddies for diaper pins yet. But I know they have duct tape.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-78607533889147717342010-03-27T20:02:00.000-07:002010-03-27T20:03:42.631-07:00All We Have is Now<blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"><span style="font-size: small;"><i>Since there exists in this four dimensional structure [space-time] no longer any sections which represent "now" objectively, the concepts of happening and becoming are indeed not completely suspended, but yet complicated. It appears therefore more natural to think of physical reality as a four dimensional existence, instead of, as hitherto, the evolution of a three dimensional existence.</i></span> Albert Einstein, 1952</span></blockquote><span style="color: black; font-family: Arial; font-size: x-small;"> </span> <br />
A few days ago my companion and I were following a car adorned with a bumper sticker that read:<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">"ALL WE HAVE IS NOW".</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br />
</div><div style="text-align: left;">That's not as pretty as "Today is not yesterday, today is not tomorrow" or "The journey is the reward", big favorites I saved from my 2005 Little Zen Calendar, and I was moderately disappointed when I found out it's actually a song by the Flaming Lips. Nonetheless, it's a darn good philosophy, particularly if you want to justify polishing off the leftover chocolate chips. Carpe Nestles.</div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-19747657729776081912010-02-17T13:41:00.000-08:002010-02-17T13:41:16.801-08:00Simon's CatWhy did I not know about <a href="http://simonscat.com/films.html">Simon's Cat</a> until today? Everyone on this planet needs to go look at his transcendently wonderful short animated films. You can watch them all in less than 10 minutes. Go now. It will make you happy.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-10351020632783675702010-02-05T21:25:00.000-08:002010-02-05T21:25:56.144-08:00'nuff said<a href="http://healthcareforamericanow.org/"><img alt="I support Health Care for America Now" border="0" height="131" src="http://healthcareforamericanow.org/page/-/img/badge.gif" width="150" /></a>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-39863143723860473032010-01-23T22:55:00.000-08:002010-09-18T05:08:56.935-07:00I'll Be Right BackMy friend, <a href="http://icbwb.com/">David</a>, sends me his essays from time to time, seeking my 2 cent's worth which I am happy to supply since, in return, I get at least a nickel's worth of things to ponder. His latest, tentatively titled "Travels in My Three Pound Universe", expounds upon the disconnect between our physical and mental selves, to which he refers as Me and Me.2 (or I and I.2 and/or You and You.2, as appropriate, but isn't Me.2 fun to say?).<br />
<br />
I can't speak for anyone else, but my Me.2 is in the driver's seat virtually 99% of the time. There may be those rare Zen moments when Me stops to drink in some physical sensation (i.e., being mindful of the moment which is harder to do than it sounds) but, mostly, I live in my head. And my head (ok, mind), while remaining firmly attached to my neck, goes on journeys from which it often returns only reluctantly, dragging its feet and looking back over its shoulder.<br />
<br />
Anyway, David covered all this in his essay better than I can. However, it reminded me of how unnerved I was around the age of 13 when I first became aware of how seldom Me and Me.2 were in the same neighborhood. I thought I was nuts. No one else, I thought, can possibly feel this way or they'd be <b><i>talking</i></b> about it. That I could find myself in the middle of <strike>a game of dodge ball</strike> (ok, that's a bad example - during dodge ball Me was front and center trying to save my skin by hiding behind Shirley Crawford) eating a sandwich and feel like I had just returned from some lengthy mental journey that felt like it must have taken much longer than the allotted lunch period was, frankly, terrifying. <br />
<br />
Years went by and I didn't seem much crazier than anyone else - more anxious, more shy, certainly - but not crazier. When I finally got around to discussing this with a couple of people it turns out we pretty much <i><b>all</b></i> feel that way in varying degrees. A friend told me her mother called it "sitting on a cloud" which, hands down, sounds better than "being a lunatic".<br />
<br />
Someone needs to explain this to children. I can't be the only one who was frightened. And while they're at it, they can teach them to draw by employing the <a href="http://www.drawright.com/">right sides of their brains</a> - which is just about as mindful of the moment as you can get. It's a nice vacation from feeling crazy and everybody's drawings turn out great.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-81510047409441776322010-01-18T20:27:00.000-08:002010-01-18T20:27:34.131-08:00Pugshot<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Rj_mx6YuN18/S1UuRhecY3I/AAAAAAAAASM/tzKm5wU8QsY/s1600-h/pugshot.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Rj_mx6YuN18/S1UuRhecY3I/AAAAAAAAASM/tzKm5wU8QsY/s200/pugshot.jpg" /></a><br />
</div>Today has much to recommend it. Today is Martin Luther King Jr's birthday. Well, probably not, but close enough for holiday purposes. And today the tv news showed a woman being pulled, alive, from a collapsed building in Haiti after being trapped for six days. And today Poppy, previously known as Puppy, became available for adoption through the kind services of <a href="http://www.pacificpugrescue.org/">Pacific Pug Rescue</a>.<br />
<br />
Puppy, who I shall commence calling Poppy in honor of her bright future, was sold to an eighty-something couple who lived on a busy road and have an unfenced yard. The "breeder", and I use the term loosely, passed her off as a pug, the closest thing to an upholstered concrete block as you can get in dogdom. How odd, then, that she clocks in around 75 mph as she makes the circuit through living room, dining room, kitchen, over the back of your chair, between your feet, across the dining room table, and ricochets off your chest. Pugs, unlike Poppy, do not normally require the use of a salmon net to retrieve them when they escape into the wild blue yonder.<br />
<br />
As much as they loved her, despite the gouges from loving <strike>claws</strike> paws and the occasional broken pelvis (whoops! bad dog!), said eighty-something couple agreed to give her up as long as she went to a good home. I called <a href="http://www.pacificpugrescue.org/">Pacific Pug Rescue</a> and by lunchtime Poppy, who it turns out, is a Boston Terrier with a possible smattering of pug somewhere in her lineage, went to stay with a lovely foster mother named Vicky who has a pug <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">and</span> a seven-month-old Boston Terrier.<br />
<br />
So, thanks to the people who do big things like fomenting social change and reuniting families. But, thanks also, to the people who scoop poop at the <a href="http://southwesthumane.org/">Humane Society</a>, and the volunteer surgeons at the <a href="http://www.feralcats.com/">Feral Cat Coalition</a>, and thanks to the rescue groups who even take in rescues that don't <i>quite</i> fit the profile. Thanks Vicky.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-17650867857377789762010-01-12T23:01:00.001-08:002010-01-12T23:07:54.215-08:00Always Take a Camera to Costco<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Rj_mx6YuN18/S01wtrVky4I/AAAAAAAAARs/Es1bhAp5k1I/s1600-h/meatballs.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 227px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_Rj_mx6YuN18/S01wtrVky4I/AAAAAAAAARs/Es1bhAp5k1I/s400/meatballs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5426117056080956290" border="0" /></a><br /><div style="text-align: left;">I guess they wouldn't call them Veggie Veggieballs. That would be redundant. Accurate, but redundant.<br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-33568957374828839722010-01-02T23:14:00.000-08:002010-01-03T11:25:29.150-08:00Why I Don't Want to Be a Kid AgainThe film adaptation of <span style="font-style: italic;">Where the Wild Things Are</span> perfectly captures the frustration, fear, meanness, savagery, and helplessness that is childhood. With big fuzzy monsters. And a kid so obnoxious that women everywhere will be gobbling birth control pills.<br /><br />Some things are just better on paper.<br /><br />It has a PG rating. I think it stands for pretty grim.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-89005217932426348912010-01-01T23:16:00.000-08:002010-01-02T00:23:09.836-08:00Party Town, USAMy friend, M, went to the Benson Hotel for champagne and dancing to a big band on new year's eve. She thought for a couple of days in advance about which dress to wear, and tried to get to bed early the night before. I went to Astoria. Oregon.<br /><br />We started at the Pig 'n' Pancake for a little visit with friends passing through town. The wait staff kept giving us meaningful glances and heaving heavy sighs, so we didn't linger. They wanted to go home. A Pig 'n' Pancake official locked the foyer doors behind us before we even had our jackets zipped up against the (periodically horizontal) rain. Our friends set off for Long Beach. We went looking for debauchery or a reasonable facsimile thereof. With dancing, please.<br /><br />Astoria is dotted with a variety of bars, pubs, and restaurants. One promising doorway had a portable fence like the one that keeps you in line at the bank - only they didn't have anyone to keep in line. And, besides, they wouldn't let us in because one of us left home without a driver's license. Being, clearly, decades past legal drinking age (face it, Oil of <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Olay</span> can't work miracles) wasn't good enough and the conscientious bouncer turned us away.<br /><br />In the end we dropped into a waterfront lounge and, lo, on the table was a card advertising dancing in the banquet room! What we found was a fresh faced DJ with enormous headphones playing electronic music to a virtually empty room, save for one medium-small girl in a party dress perched on the edge of a chair swinging her legs to the beat. A tiny disco ball twirled on the ceiling. Never being of a mind to pass up a dance floor with plenty of elbow room, we asked the DJ to look in his library for something suitable for swing dancing. He knit his teenage brow and allowed as he might have some Rat Pack music.<br /><br />Good enough. We shed our shoes (the dance floor was carpeted...) and got right to it - a little east coast, some one step, a dip here and there - and darned if people didn't stop and look. And then they came in. And then they danced, too. Even when the DJ played YMCA. At midnight the restaurant staff brought us plastic hats, horns, and tiny cups of champagne. It was just dandy.<br /><br />Happy New Year, loyal readers. Both of you.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-2362686359018355042009-12-05T09:42:00.000-08:002009-12-05T12:40:40.145-08:00We Shall, We Shall Not Be MovedLast night I climbed into my time machine and went back to 1970. A room full of people with scrawny ponytails (men) and lumpy dresses (women) sat, rapt, in the candlelight, on mismatched thrift store furniture, listening to a man sing without moving his lips. It's a style that's thrifty with the alphabet and doesn't expend much energy. Consonants, particularly at the end of words, are discouraged. "Aay wah to lay doww besiii you..." (and, honestly, am I the last person on earth who cares about lay and lie?). It made for excellent napping on a dandy thrift store sofa while waiting for the band we really wanted to hear.<br /><br />Said band was billed as a dance band. And so it was. Unfortunately, it was not a dance <span style="font-style: italic;">audience</span>. A modest space for dancing had been cleared on the excellent hardwood floor and the band leader announced, first thing, that it would be a good thing to move the tables back as far as possible to make more room for dancing. Imagine the imposing stone faces of Easter Island. Now imagine them sitting around a dance floor, impassive, in lumpy dresses and inadequate ponytails, arms (if they had any) crossed. That's how much they moved. Not at all.<br /><br />The most recent season of Dancing with the Stars introduced some new dance genres and team performances and last night's exercise has inspired an idea that I think is worth sending in. Obstacle dancing. The audience moves their chairs onto the floor and throws down random clothing items like stocking caps and jackets. Coffee tables with sharp corners ramp up the excitement. A wandering Labrador retriever pulls in the family demographic. They can hold the preliminaries in Portland, Oregon. The course is already set up.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-4287763990042402862009-11-10T21:49:00.000-08:002009-11-10T22:40:01.310-08:00Do You Hear What I Hear?November 2<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">nd</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">Newsweek</span> article, <span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">The Devil Loves Cell Phones</span>, and subtitled, <span style="font-style: italic;">Silence isn't just golden -- it's heavenly</span>, rails on about cell phones, yelling TV pundits and Twitter, but nowhere does it mention the Devil's most insidious weapon: Christmas Muzak®.<br /><br />I don't shop. Oh, I buy stuff. But I don't shop as a form of entertainment. However, I am a devoted mother, and when my son and his intended bride asked me to look for a birdcage as a wedding decoration, it became my mission to unearth the personality-plus cage of all cages. The best one is on <a href="http://cgi.ebay.com/ws/eBayISAPI.dll?ViewItem&item=270481855279&ssPageName=STRK:MEWAX:IT"><span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">ebay</span></a>, but by the time the auction is over it'll be too late. Thus, I felt compelled to go to brick and mortar <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">stores</span>. In <span style="font-style: italic;">shopping malls</span>. In <span style="font-style: italic;">November</span>.<br /><br />Note to Pier One Imports, Michael's Arts and Crafts, and the antique mall: If your Christmas music is boring holes in my brain like a cross between mad cow disease and a railroad spike, I can't think about purchasing your products. In fact, that person sprinting out the door that you think, considering the speed, must be a shoplifter? That's me.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-37678479142465033492009-10-29T19:43:00.000-07:002009-10-29T22:13:26.107-07:00Darwin at WorkOne of my favorite stories from a fellow blogger: Man standing at the freeway exit waiting for a handout. He's holding a square of cardboard... with <span style="font-style: italic;">nothing</span> written on it. Subliminal message? "Will work for Sharpie."<br /><br />How many times have you wondered - where do the cardboard sign people get those nice black markers?<br /><br />For about a month, I have been involved with helping someone get off the street and into some sort of life - a life that the most of us would regard as sorely inadequate. Just a warm, safe place to stay. Food to eat. An address.<br /><br />A number of years ago, I attended a dinner party that included a well-to-do real estate broker and his wife who were clad in matching Planet Hollywood sweatshirts. The conversation turned to prisoners in state custody and the education in social skills and job training provided to them on the taxpayer's dime. Said real estate broker maintained, hotly, that our money was being wasted mollycoddling prisoners. Make 'em do their time, pay their debt to society, and then kick them out and let them <span style="font-style: italic;">pull themselves up by their bootstraps</span> and if they pulled hard enough, by golly, they could be just like him! (hopefully, without the sweatshirts) But, I digress. Sort of.<br /><br />The person I've been helping isn't an ex-con. This person just made a lifetime of dumb choices that put him where none of us ever expect to be. A dear friend of mine, concerned for my sanity and pocketbook, told me, "Don't get involved. There's always someone who will take care of these people." But, you know what? It's not true. Here's what happens if you are homeless, penniless, ill, and have no transportation. You can stay in a shelter for the night, 1. if you know where to go, 2. you manage to sign in between the hours of 5:45 and 6:30, 3. you have a TB card, and 4. your name gets called in the nightly lottery for beds. You can be seen in the free clinic if you can be there on Thursday night between 7 and 9 pm. (<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">Hmm</span>, we need to do some tests! Come back in a week, and try to not die in the meantime.) A wonderful entity called Northwest Pilot Project (seriously, they are a blessing for some) will help you find housing if you are willing to come back day after day and wait for 5 hours in the hope that you'll be one of the four people they can see that day. Oh wait, they can't help you find housing if you have no income. You might be able to rent an SRO (single room occupancy - got to learn the jargon) if you have $40 for the application, no criminal record, and good credit. The waiting list for subsidized housing is over a year long unless you're a pregnant woman, HIV positive, or in a recovery program (note to self: plan ahead!).<br /><br />And don't ever, ever, ever lose your I.D. Nothing happens without identification.<br /><br />I don't have any answers. The real estate broker would probably tell me this was evolution doing its job and I'm messing up the program by not allowing the weak member of the herd to be taken down by the wolves.<br /><br />(Note to self: buy Sharpies)Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-22497257394332045662009-09-11T00:40:00.000-07:002009-09-11T00:46:15.195-07:00Fish!Well, I was going to talk about health care reform, but considering I ate tuna casserole for lunch and fish and chips for dinner, I will, instead direct you to my new blog <a href="http://lovemyfishies.blogspot.com">Everything Fish</a>. It is especially appropriate for those blog visitors that are more right brained, i.e. heavy on pictures, light on words. And besides, it will give you whole new vistas of artwork you might want to take into your home to cherish, adore, and pay me to make for you.Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-47419924921776576012009-09-08T07:50:00.000-07:002009-09-08T07:55:28.041-07:00Details, details...The last line of a job posting on today's craigslist:<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Candidate must be detail oriented, personable, and must have excellent communication and organization ski </span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-65626439107246751202009-08-15T18:28:00.000-07:002009-08-15T18:55:50.121-07:00On the Road AgainA little something for everyone at this Battleground, Washington business:<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Tackle Box</span><br /><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">Wedding Events</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">Which rivals my favorite that used to be on the north side of Hwy 30 between St Helens and Rainier:<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Tanning</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Toning</span><br /><span style="font-weight: bold; font-style: italic;">Saw Sharpening</span><br /></div></div></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-7942428844522624072009-08-14T21:43:00.000-07:002009-08-14T21:45:22.657-07:00Things that Make Me LaughSign I saw today:<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Writter's Group</span>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6797970725355479274.post-23037971736699932512009-08-09T22:51:00.000-07:002009-08-10T15:02:47.106-07:00One for all, and all for one.This evening as we came abreast of the bar at The Refectory (home of the Sunday night blues jam), I heard a spirited conversation between the bartender and a customer. "I'm no f***ing Dooh Mahs", declared the bartender. My first thought was that he was referring to his writing style as being unequal to that of the author of <i>The Three Musketeer</i>s, Alexandre Dumas. As we passed on by, however, the sentence concluded with something about a huge flat screen tv and I realized that, while he was not squeamish about shouting out the F word in the workplace, he apparently just couldn't bring himself to say dumb ass.<div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Anonymoushttp://www.blogger.com/profile/08117504836575616592noreply@blogger.com0