Monday, July 23, 2007
Accentuate the Positive
Here's the score from our recent trip to Canada:
Number of oot's: 3
Number of eh's: 2
Number of bus drivers flipping off jaywalking pedestrians: 1
Number of oot's: 3
Number of eh's: 2
Number of bus drivers flipping off jaywalking pedestrians: 1
Sunday, July 15, 2007
Three Failures
1. I did not write this post a couple of weeks ago, back when we were in Seattle, seeing as it is about our trip to Seattle. Ideally, the post about the vacation before the camping trip should be posted before the post about the camping trip. No matter what scoring guide you're using, my organization is a failure.
2. The Seattle Public Library, Central Branch. Don't get me wrong - it's a beautiful building. It's a rare building that offers panoramic views of other areas inside the same building, and the SPL offers several. The kids' section is well stocked and easy to manage, though Christie points out that it is noisy, sterile, and garishly painted. Christie thought the "spiral" design of the upper floors was intriguing and I thought the escalators were striking. I could watch the humongous computer display that tracks circulation for weeks on end. Look, here's a picture of how cool the escalators are:
But - forgive me if I sound old fashioned here - but libraries should be about books and, frankly, I didn't see too many books. This library is sleek and shiny, all glass and polished floors, and books are so ... well, paper and ink. The building gave me the impression that the SPL is incredibly proud of their hip, cutting edge architecture and a wee bit embarrassed by those musty dust collectors called books.
Here's what a library should look like: stack after stack of books piled to the stars, with maybe a ladder or two to help you reach them.
3. Me. Moi. Your faithful narrator and fearless blogger. The story goes like this:
Several years ago, Seattle was one of many cities that hosted a charity event where 30 or so artists decorated 30 or so giant pig sculptures, which were displayed at various locales around the city for 30 or so days. The pigs were then auctioned off to raise money for some noble goal and many (if not all) of the pigs are still displayed in various locales.
As we were walking towards the aforementioned library, we passed a pig named Pigmallion, which inspired me to tell Wrigley a somewhat inaccurate version of the myth of "Pygmalion and Galatea," an ancient myth that the Greeks told with the intention of inspiring the musical My Fair Lady. During my mistelling of the story, I (correctly) pointed out that the Greek gods and goddess often liked to visit mortals dressed as poor people and beggars to test their kindness, generosity, and basic goodness.
Less than a block later, we encountered a panhandler with very bad teeth and a pretty good line: My wife and I have HIV ... Social Security cut me off because I worked too much ... We just need $17 ... just to make it to the end of the month ... We've been to all the services ... just $17. He talked to us for the length of a block and gave up when we crossed the street.
Now, I have no (well, few) doubts about my kindness, generosity, and my basic goodness, but what if? Seriously, what if that just happened to be Apollo I rejected, or Athena? Maybe it was some plain old generic angel sent to the great metropolis of Seattle in search of a single act of human decency? Seriously, what if I was tested?
Well, the answer to that question is obvious.
2. The Seattle Public Library, Central Branch. Don't get me wrong - it's a beautiful building. It's a rare building that offers panoramic views of other areas inside the same building, and the SPL offers several. The kids' section is well stocked and easy to manage, though Christie points out that it is noisy, sterile, and garishly painted. Christie thought the "spiral" design of the upper floors was intriguing and I thought the escalators were striking. I could watch the humongous computer display that tracks circulation for weeks on end. Look, here's a picture of how cool the escalators are:
But - forgive me if I sound old fashioned here - but libraries should be about books and, frankly, I didn't see too many books. This library is sleek and shiny, all glass and polished floors, and books are so ... well, paper and ink. The building gave me the impression that the SPL is incredibly proud of their hip, cutting edge architecture and a wee bit embarrassed by those musty dust collectors called books.
Here's what a library should look like: stack after stack of books piled to the stars, with maybe a ladder or two to help you reach them.
3. Me. Moi. Your faithful narrator and fearless blogger. The story goes like this:
Several years ago, Seattle was one of many cities that hosted a charity event where 30 or so artists decorated 30 or so giant pig sculptures, which were displayed at various locales around the city for 30 or so days. The pigs were then auctioned off to raise money for some noble goal and many (if not all) of the pigs are still displayed in various locales.
As we were walking towards the aforementioned library, we passed a pig named Pigmallion, which inspired me to tell Wrigley a somewhat inaccurate version of the myth of "Pygmalion and Galatea," an ancient myth that the Greeks told with the intention of inspiring the musical My Fair Lady. During my mistelling of the story, I (correctly) pointed out that the Greek gods and goddess often liked to visit mortals dressed as poor people and beggars to test their kindness, generosity, and basic goodness.
Less than a block later, we encountered a panhandler with very bad teeth and a pretty good line: My wife and I have HIV ... Social Security cut me off because I worked too much ... We just need $17 ... just to make it to the end of the month ... We've been to all the services ... just $17. He talked to us for the length of a block and gave up when we crossed the street.
Now, I have no (well, few) doubts about my kindness, generosity, and my basic goodness, but what if? Seriously, what if that just happened to be Apollo I rejected, or Athena? Maybe it was some plain old generic angel sent to the great metropolis of Seattle in search of a single act of human decency? Seriously, what if I was tested?
Well, the answer to that question is obvious.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Four Posts in One!
About our recent camping adventures at Nehalem Falls:
1. She IS My Daughter, After All
W: Dad, do you know what a woodpecker sounds like?
D: What?
W: A fart! (She cackles hysterically.)
You know, neither her mother nor I could really disagree.
2. A Portrait of the Artist as a Camper
Those of you who know Christie (and really, who else is reading this?) know that she's not a big fan of desserts. Yes, she'll eat them, but she doesn't live and die for whipped cream the way some people I know do. Give her a pickle and she's totally content. Weird, I know, but true.
Even so, you cannot imagine the care and craftsmanship this woman dedicates to the humble S'more. It is a thing of beauty to behold. First, she places two squares of chocolate (need I mention this is deep, deep, deep dark chocolate, not a stale chunk off a Hershey bar?) on a graham cracker and rests them on the grate near the fire. Not directly above it - oh, no! - just near it. And then she waits. And waits. She adjusts a little. A nudge here. A nudge there. The chocolate starts to sweat. The chocolate starts to soften. Finally, it begins to melt. By the time Christie is ready to eat it, the chocolate is positively glistening.
After waiting with divine patience for at least ten minutes - husband is busily toasting marshmallow two and daughter is already munching on number three - Christie begins the delicate process of toasting her marshmallow. Again, it's art. Careful as a hunter, graceful as a dancer, she slowly circles the fire, bending low, stretching out, leaning this way and that, all in search of the perfect spot to suspend her marshmallow. She tries out three or four complex yoga positions - Marshmallow Warrior I and II, The Flame Salute - before settling down to work. Not too close, no, not too close. Flick the wrist a little. Gently adjust. Juuuuust right.
Was it worth the wait? Heckifino. She wouldn't let me near the thing. Honestly, would you? All I can say is it sure looked good.
3. Almost There
I am sitting on a bench 100 yards above the Nehalem River, spiral notebook in lap, pen in hand. Clouds skim above the wall of trees on the opposite shore more quickly than the lazy current carries reluctant twigs downstream.
In this stillness, suspended between the whisper of the river and the lilting of birds, I almost understand the allure of fishing. The water is seductive - serene and soothing. I've been watching her for three days now - her dips and eddies, her deeps and shallows, the spots where fish strike and salamanders slink. And if there is one thing I've learned about rivers in the last three days it is that I know nothing about rivers. Reading a river is like reading a Russian translation of Finnegan's Wake.
But I think I understand fishermen a little bit better. I understand the desire to lose yourself in a river like losing yourself in a book. I understand the desire to sit in still water as the sun crests a mountain, serenaded by birds and current and stones.
The one thing I can't figure out is why would you want to ruin it all by catching a fish?
4. Roughly
The number of times this weekend the we, my wife and I, either deliberately or accidentally, thoughtfully or carelessly, intentionally or recklessly, endangered the life of our child in or around the Nehalem River and the accompanying rocks, boulders, and forests: roughly 65,000. I'm not saying this is a good thing or a bad thing, I'm just sayin'. 65,000, give or take.
1. She IS My Daughter, After All
W: Dad, do you know what a woodpecker sounds like?
D: What?
W: A fart! (She cackles hysterically.)
You know, neither her mother nor I could really disagree.
2. A Portrait of the Artist as a Camper
Those of you who know Christie (and really, who else is reading this?) know that she's not a big fan of desserts. Yes, she'll eat them, but she doesn't live and die for whipped cream the way some people I know do. Give her a pickle and she's totally content. Weird, I know, but true.
Even so, you cannot imagine the care and craftsmanship this woman dedicates to the humble S'more. It is a thing of beauty to behold. First, she places two squares of chocolate (need I mention this is deep, deep, deep dark chocolate, not a stale chunk off a Hershey bar?) on a graham cracker and rests them on the grate near the fire. Not directly above it - oh, no! - just near it. And then she waits. And waits. She adjusts a little. A nudge here. A nudge there. The chocolate starts to sweat. The chocolate starts to soften. Finally, it begins to melt. By the time Christie is ready to eat it, the chocolate is positively glistening.
After waiting with divine patience for at least ten minutes - husband is busily toasting marshmallow two and daughter is already munching on number three - Christie begins the delicate process of toasting her marshmallow. Again, it's art. Careful as a hunter, graceful as a dancer, she slowly circles the fire, bending low, stretching out, leaning this way and that, all in search of the perfect spot to suspend her marshmallow. She tries out three or four complex yoga positions - Marshmallow Warrior I and II, The Flame Salute - before settling down to work. Not too close, no, not too close. Flick the wrist a little. Gently adjust. Juuuuust right.
Was it worth the wait? Heckifino. She wouldn't let me near the thing. Honestly, would you? All I can say is it sure looked good.
3. Almost There
I am sitting on a bench 100 yards above the Nehalem River, spiral notebook in lap, pen in hand. Clouds skim above the wall of trees on the opposite shore more quickly than the lazy current carries reluctant twigs downstream.
In this stillness, suspended between the whisper of the river and the lilting of birds, I almost understand the allure of fishing. The water is seductive - serene and soothing. I've been watching her for three days now - her dips and eddies, her deeps and shallows, the spots where fish strike and salamanders slink. And if there is one thing I've learned about rivers in the last three days it is that I know nothing about rivers. Reading a river is like reading a Russian translation of Finnegan's Wake.
But I think I understand fishermen a little bit better. I understand the desire to lose yourself in a river like losing yourself in a book. I understand the desire to sit in still water as the sun crests a mountain, serenaded by birds and current and stones.
The one thing I can't figure out is why would you want to ruin it all by catching a fish?
4. Roughly
The number of times this weekend the we, my wife and I, either deliberately or accidentally, thoughtfully or carelessly, intentionally or recklessly, endangered the life of our child in or around the Nehalem River and the accompanying rocks, boulders, and forests: roughly 65,000. I'm not saying this is a good thing or a bad thing, I'm just sayin'. 65,000, give or take.
Thursday, July 05, 2007
Wild, Wild Life
A couple of nights ago, Christie and I were downstairs watching a movie after Wrig had gone to bed. Marble, who is feeling strangely cuddly lately, was keeping us company. We head a noise upstairs. Correction, we heard noises upstairs. Even Marble, fierce defender of the homestead, heard noises.
We finally go up to investigate. While still on the stairs, I hear a rattling, which sounds a bit like our dishwasher (which hasn't been feeling well). But no, Christie did not start the dishwasher. I continue up and into the living room, figuring that the fan is shuffling a few stray papers. Christie, who thought the rattling sounded like chomping, turned to the right, where we keep the back door and the cat food.
Quothe the noble Chrsitie: "Oh, eek. A possum."
Christie really did say "eek." She didn't screech "EEEEK!" like a fifties housewife, she simply said the word "eek."
The critter had, apparently, snuck into our house by squeezing under our screen door. While Christie was searching for a mop to defend herself with, the possum snuck right back out. Possums, by the way, are really ugly creatures.
On the other hand, this morning as I headed out to the back yard to do a little yard work, I was greeted by a hawk. We observed it closely until it decided to (quite majestically) glide away. Then we dashed inside to look at our bird book and figure out who our guest was.
Christie voted for the Cooper's Hawk:
Wrig voted for the Sharp-Shinned Hawk:
I think it was probably a Cooper's Hawk, but it's much more fun to say it was a Sharp-Shinned Hawk because Sharp-Shinned is such a cool name. I was hoping that the hawk was planning to defend our homestead from marauding possums, but it turns out both breeds of (closely related) hawk like to hang out by bird feeders and prey on songbirds.
Might I suggest, Mr. Hawk, that that blue jay over there looks quite tasty?
We finally go up to investigate. While still on the stairs, I hear a rattling, which sounds a bit like our dishwasher (which hasn't been feeling well). But no, Christie did not start the dishwasher. I continue up and into the living room, figuring that the fan is shuffling a few stray papers. Christie, who thought the rattling sounded like chomping, turned to the right, where we keep the back door and the cat food.
Quothe the noble Chrsitie: "Oh, eek. A possum."
Christie really did say "eek." She didn't screech "EEEEK!" like a fifties housewife, she simply said the word "eek."
The critter had, apparently, snuck into our house by squeezing under our screen door. While Christie was searching for a mop to defend herself with, the possum snuck right back out. Possums, by the way, are really ugly creatures.
On the other hand, this morning as I headed out to the back yard to do a little yard work, I was greeted by a hawk. We observed it closely until it decided to (quite majestically) glide away. Then we dashed inside to look at our bird book and figure out who our guest was.
Christie voted for the Cooper's Hawk:
Wrig voted for the Sharp-Shinned Hawk:
I think it was probably a Cooper's Hawk, but it's much more fun to say it was a Sharp-Shinned Hawk because Sharp-Shinned is such a cool name. I was hoping that the hawk was planning to defend our homestead from marauding possums, but it turns out both breeds of (closely related) hawk like to hang out by bird feeders and prey on songbirds.
Might I suggest, Mr. Hawk, that that blue jay over there looks quite tasty?
Saturday, June 30, 2007
Good SAM
I'm not sure I can quite capture how much fun we had at the Seattle Art Museum's sculpture garden at Olympic Park. The space itself is amazing. The landscaping is a work of art in itself. I don't just mean that the grass is green and the End of Spring wildflowers are charming (though they are). I mean that the pathways and the railings are designed to move you among the sculptures in a way that enhances both your visit and the artwork. Even something as simple as a concrete wall has just the right angles to create a graceful lines. You can almost feel the artist's hand sketching them - and you - into place.
Several of the large installations - particularly "Seattle Cloud Cover" and "Wake" - make the viewer part of the art. As you walk through "Seattle Cloud Cover," light is refracted through colored glass, creating patterns on the gravel and on your body. The whole sculpture is about 200 feet long and becomes a different work with every step. "Wake" is a massive collection of iron ... thingies. They rise up out of the sand like ships' hulls or shark fins. The installation has wildly different looks as you enter, exit, and move among the monoliths. As you speak, your voice becomes part of the art. As the sun climbs and falls, the shadows change the character of the work. It's odd to describe art as thrilling, but "Wake" really got my blood flowing. And don't forget "Capula XVI" and "Capula XVII" - two swinging structures like wicker birdcages, large enough to fit wife and child, perhaps, or four rambunctious children.
AND! To top it off, we happened to visit on a day when volunteers from Rare Care, an organization dedicated to identifying rare plants, had set up half a dozen or so tables with very interesting and well crafted activities. Wrigley donned butterfly wings and pollinated plants, drew a picture of a plant by sense of touch alone, pressed a dozen flowers, examined twenty types of moss with a magnifying glass, and peeked at plants through a microscope. We simply didn't have the energy to participate in all the fun stuff.
On our way out, we passed a collection of photos by Glenn Rudolph. He composed a photo essay about Olympic Park back in '86. The museum invited him to create another collection to chronicle the transformation of the park from a "feral" land to a sculpture garden. The most moving piece was a photograph of a young man who had been living in the park on the day they put up the chain link fence to begin renovation. It's a moving portrait of a homeless man being evicted from his un-home, lovingly crafted by the artist, and bravely published by the institution responsible for his eviction.
Quite a remarkable place; quite a remarkable day.
Several of the large installations - particularly "Seattle Cloud Cover" and "Wake" - make the viewer part of the art. As you walk through "Seattle Cloud Cover," light is refracted through colored glass, creating patterns on the gravel and on your body. The whole sculpture is about 200 feet long and becomes a different work with every step. "Wake" is a massive collection of iron ... thingies. They rise up out of the sand like ships' hulls or shark fins. The installation has wildly different looks as you enter, exit, and move among the monoliths. As you speak, your voice becomes part of the art. As the sun climbs and falls, the shadows change the character of the work. It's odd to describe art as thrilling, but "Wake" really got my blood flowing. And don't forget "Capula XVI" and "Capula XVII" - two swinging structures like wicker birdcages, large enough to fit wife and child, perhaps, or four rambunctious children.
AND! To top it off, we happened to visit on a day when volunteers from Rare Care, an organization dedicated to identifying rare plants, had set up half a dozen or so tables with very interesting and well crafted activities. Wrigley donned butterfly wings and pollinated plants, drew a picture of a plant by sense of touch alone, pressed a dozen flowers, examined twenty types of moss with a magnifying glass, and peeked at plants through a microscope. We simply didn't have the energy to participate in all the fun stuff.
On our way out, we passed a collection of photos by Glenn Rudolph. He composed a photo essay about Olympic Park back in '86. The museum invited him to create another collection to chronicle the transformation of the park from a "feral" land to a sculpture garden. The most moving piece was a photograph of a young man who had been living in the park on the day they put up the chain link fence to begin renovation. It's a moving portrait of a homeless man being evicted from his un-home, lovingly crafted by the artist, and bravely published by the institution responsible for his eviction.
Quite a remarkable place; quite a remarkable day.
Thursday, June 28, 2007
Still More Things
22. Outside my window I can see exactly 18 brand new garbage trucks. I believe number 19 is just out of my view.
23. My favorite garbage truck is the one with the American Flag painted on its side. Where’s a constitutional amendment when you need one?
24. Outside my window, I can see seven brand new dumpsters. No dumpsters, to my knowledge, lurk just out of sight.
25. What are the odds that a conference on trash collection and recycling would coincide with a conference on AP? Feel free to draw any analogies you’d like. I’m too tired to draw analogies.
26. I got wined and dined tonight by a textbook publishing company. They bought me a little fruit, some sliced bell peppers, half a dozen (or more) skewers of chicken sate, a dozen coconut fried shrimp, a handful (pretty much literally) of egg rolls, four cocktails, and two cups of coffee. All that, and I won’t even mention their name on our blog. Man, I’m a cheapskate.
27. In class today, while reading a paper that scored quite well, a student accidentally changed reckless into wreckless. I think wreckless is my new favorite word, replacing the current champion, “crotchital region.”
28. I miss my wife very much. I should probably tell her that.
23. My favorite garbage truck is the one with the American Flag painted on its side. Where’s a constitutional amendment when you need one?
24. Outside my window, I can see seven brand new dumpsters. No dumpsters, to my knowledge, lurk just out of sight.
25. What are the odds that a conference on trash collection and recycling would coincide with a conference on AP? Feel free to draw any analogies you’d like. I’m too tired to draw analogies.
26. I got wined and dined tonight by a textbook publishing company. They bought me a little fruit, some sliced bell peppers, half a dozen (or more) skewers of chicken sate, a dozen coconut fried shrimp, a handful (pretty much literally) of egg rolls, four cocktails, and two cups of coffee. All that, and I won’t even mention their name on our blog. Man, I’m a cheapskate.
27. In class today, while reading a paper that scored quite well, a student accidentally changed reckless into wreckless. I think wreckless is my new favorite word, replacing the current champion, “crotchital region.”
28. I miss my wife very much. I should probably tell her that.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
