upperballard

My Birthday Present to My Dead Brother

2011-12-23T10:18:00.000-08:00

Tough Guys in Front of Fake Tree, late 80s.

My brother Randy was born 60 years ago today. He died in 2004 of sadness, depression, and the usual related behaviors.

The holidays can bring out the most dreadfully maudlin tendencies within us, and this post is endangered by that, but I’ll do my best to not go too far in that direction.

Learned From the Master

Randy was a trip, with a capital T. He was so many things. As a RN with a fierce loyalty to putting the needs of patients above all else, he’d often clash with hierarchical culture of medicine; a pretty gifted athlete in his early years, he was fast, strong, smart, and crafty. When he was a teen, he developed this hilarious baseball slide to avoid being tagged. He’d slow down, almost completely stop as if to say “OK, I’m out, go ahead and tag me,” and then quickly collapse to the ground, thrusting out his foot to the bag. I saw him use this successfully in practice settings a couple of times, and it was completely over-the-top uproarious. His coaches hated it and thought it was inappropriate, so it never got rolled in a life game setting. But in the right setting, it would have worked.

He also had a crazy combination of leadership skills and extreme passivity, which apparently masked some dark stuff that would come out occasionally as rage. Trying to make sense of that over the years has not yielded any clear understanding of what it was about.

We lived in Silverton, a small town in Oregon, for his first 14 years, and in that time he made a nice life for himself. He was never a big shot, never one to strut around and belittle others. But he was still recognized as a leader in sports and school activities, and generally an active, healthy and happy kid.

Then we moved to Eugene for my dad to go to school, and while the move was rough on Randy, he held his own in Eugene, continuing on in the same role as someone who was respected and engaged. We were there for just a year, then moved to Richland, Washington.

Again, he held up pretty well, found his niche again in sports, but it all fell apart as we moved again after two years to Hawaii, going into his senior year. He practically begged my parents to let him stay in Richland. He’d done a good job of setting the plate for his senior year in sports, school, and with some high quality friends. But move he did, and it all went completely to hell. Hawaiian culture is a tough nut to crack for outsiders, particularly in high school, and at Punahou School he languished. He barely made the football team, never played, had great difficulty making friends, and got cut from baseball.

Still there were some good points. And his life over the next few decades had many highlights: some nice relationships, good friends, recognition and respect from others, and scholastic success. But in his later years, an ugly divorce, struggle with depression and substances, the death of his wife due to a medical gaffe, and a bad motorcycle accident led him to a stagnant few final years punctuated by immobility, illness, emotional blunting, and a general spiritual surrender. And it was unspeakably sad when he died in 2004 at the age of 52 , living in the squalor of a moldy little room attached to a remote farmhouse in Oregon.

The last time I saw him we ate raw oysters and watched golf on his little snowy TV, him talking like a child, “ you gonna come back and see me again Jim?” Advanced disease and it’s accompanying metabolic mayhem left him like that, and he could barely find the strength to stand up. But even then, I saw a little spark. His interest in the oysters and the golf on TV were inspiring, summoned even in the face of his imminent death.

In his heyday, his fortes were making hilarious faces (concern, sadness, anger, we’d throw out a name of a characteristic and then he’d make the face), love of dogs, hatred of inequality and injustice, an innate ability to instantly and deeply connect with people with disabilities, and a very dry wit.

When we were kids, the comic strip Buzz Sawyer featured a fictional city “Ciudad Grande.” Randy was learning Spanish, and found out it meant ”big city,” which he and the rest of our family thought was the most ridiculous thing ever, that the comic strip named the locale that. So in one shining example of our families unlikely but pervasive tendencies toward absurd humor, he trained our Dad to integrate that into our parting comments when Dad was dropping us off at school. As we got out of the car we’d say “Ciudad!” and Dad would say “Grande!” And every single time, it made us all laugh.

So for your birthday, Mr. Randy Anderson, here’s what I am giving you. I promise to continue to try and make myself or someone around me laugh by making your funny faces; I’ll do the very best I can to honor your honest but failed struggles with the genetic and cultural demons of our family by trying to conquer them myself in your name; I’ll try to pet every dog I see, assuming it appears to be safe; I’ll redouble my efforts to highlight and defeat forces that cause human suffering from inequality; and I’ll look for every opportunity to eat raw oysters and watch golf on TV, hopefully at the same time.

Miss ya bro, but yer struggles weren’t fer nuthin.

Radiation From Japan’s Nuclear Explosions: Good For Us All!!

2011-03-18T23:18:00.000-07:00

Fukushima Daiichi Reactor Three: Looking Good!

By Dr. Brad Blegdahl, Chair, Department of Nuclear Explosions, Wisconsin University of Nuclear Explosion Technology

In spite of left-wing media hysteria and baseless assertions by numerous hippies, recent evidence is showing that the nuclear radiation recently released due to numerous plant explostions is exactly good for the environment.

According to this one dude on the internet who’s Dad was some sort of nuclear guy in Germany, the whole thing is much ado about nothing: “I guarantee you this right now, none of those explosions have really hurt anyone, and that radiation is not enough to hurt even a small child, even if the child was placed in a small room and then you put all the radiation in that small room with that child. I guarantee that’s true.”

The dude also posted this really cool drawing about nuclear power plants, which proves that even when they explode it’s not that bad, and that in fact it helps trees and birds and stuff. He said it would be OK if I put it here, and so here it is:

As you can see, this drawing shows how safe nuclear power really is, even when it blows out big holes in structures.

I saw on the internet this other picture taken by some other dude who knows a lot about nuclear power, because he works for one of the companies that makes these things, and you can see how safe this truly is:

Actual picture of children playing safely next to exploding nuclear plant

So as we can all see, nuclear explosions are actually a positive thing, and are just part of the natural energy cycle of the world.

Time to Rethink Our Use of Ferrets?

2011-02-11T07:00:00.000-08:00

“Group Faults UW Use of Ferrets in Medical Training” was the headline of a piece in today’s Seattle Times, and it really got me thinking about my own use of ferrets. Like most people in Seattle, I own several ferrets. And as with many routines, sometimes we get a little numb, and just stop thinking about the things in our lives that seem to run on auto-pilot, such as ferret care.

A little about my ferrets. I have twelve, and they live in our house with my wife and me. We have raised them all since birth, and they range in age from 2 to 49. Ferrets can live upwards of 200 years, so we consider all of ours to be young ferrets.

We treat them all like family, and the result is a lively, romping, and hard-working group of ferrets who work hard, play hard, and have excellent self-grooming skills. We have been very pleased with them, and really give them little thought.

But as I read the Times article, it got me to thinking. Are we really doing the very best for our ferrets? While they certainly appear to be happy enough, do we ever really take the time to “stop and smell the ferrets?”

And as I considered this, I did some research, and found a vibrant, robust, and lively body of literature about the ethics of ferret care. Some of the points that I thought were most salient, and that have turned our heads around about our ferrets, are:

1. Are you respecting the cultural traditions of your ferrets?

Ferrets are a proud and sprightly breed, and have many traditions unique to their origins. For example most ferrets in the wild live high in trees, and often will move from tree to tree by flinging each other high into the air toward the next tree. Animal anthropologists refer to this as “Species Specific Flinging,” and building small structures in a house for ferrets to climb and be flung from is one common way to respect this tradition.

2. Inventory your ferret activities. Are the ferrets being exploited?

We did this, and realized the ferrets were doing many more things than we give them credit for. Certainly they perform the standard ferret tasks, including driving us to work, regular deep cleaning duties around the house, standard household maintenance, and the like. But what we really had hardly noticed was how the ferrets had taken on more and more responsibilities related to household financial management, shopping, and care of senior family members. When we took this “inventory,” it gave us pause, and both increased our appreciation of our ferret family, while leading us to wonder if we have come to expect too much from them.

3. Does your household have a culture of recognition for ferrets?

It’s known by ferret specialists that ferrets thrive on praise and acknowledgement. One recommendation from a well-known ferret psychologist is to conduct frequent “Ferret Circles,” where the animals are gathered in a circle around a small, easily constructed outdoor firepit. Chanting and ferret-themed poetry can go a long way to build esteem in any ferret.

4. Are you trying to make your ferrets into small humans?

The top ferret experts decry this tendency, and warn against clothing ferrets, having them sit at tables for meals, or other humanizing activities. While domestication of ferrets is permissible according to top ferret authorities, they must be allowed to connect to their natural upbringing habits. Certainly wild ferrets can be extraordinarily filthy, and this must not be allowed in the household, but a few simple steps can go a long way to making your ferret community harmonious, productive, and relatively odor-free.

Johnny Eggsalad – The Untold Story

2011-01-14T11:02:00.000-08:00

“…and then, Johnny Eggsalad appeared out of nowhere, his flute shining in the son as he marched down the orchard lane, entertaining all the birds in the trees with his simple flute melodies!”

Mom and her four year old son Billy sat still for several moments, taking in the story that she had just told. She often would rock Billy to sleep on her lap this way, telling tales of Johnny Eggsalad. Life in Tualatin, Oregon was rough, with no money, little in the way of clothing or food, no stereo or smartphones, and a dated Wii plugged into a shamefully large color monitor, disgusting in it’s deep profile and lack of flatness.

“Ma, how come you calls him Johnny Eggsalad? That’s a real stupid name, Ma!”

Sylvia Johnson took a deep breath, looking down at her son in his clean, but dated Calvin Klein jeans, his worn Abercrombie and Fitch cap, and those cheap leather Gap boots that she had stolen for him. A retired nuclear engineer, she had left the field because of environmental concerns, vowing to never again set foot in a cooling tower. But now, things were tougher. Now, instead of using her PhD in nuclear physics, she used her cat-like instincts and stole stuff to survive. Was she happy with her new career? Hardly. But did she feel a sense or relief everyday in not contributing to a soiled environment? Absolutely.

“Billy, why do you think they would call someone that? Because he loved egg salad, that’s why, silly!” She hugged Billy tightly, eliciting a giggle from him as he looked up grinning, and chortled “yes Mama, of course!!” Again, there was a relaxed pause, until Billy broke the silence, his freshly washed face aglow, teeth shining from their recent brushings and increased use of white strips. White strips were big at the Johnson house. Sylvia knew she couldn’t control many things, but she vowed that if there was one thing she would control, it would be the whiteness of her son’s precious little teeth. And white strips would be the means to that very whiteness.

“Ma, how did you know Johnny Eggsalad?”

“Well Billy, that’s a very long story. But I think the simplest way to put it is that we both spent a lot of time at the juvie hall in our little town, and met at some of the dances where the juvie boys would dance with the juvie girls.”

“Was he your boyfriend mama?”

“No Billy, it was never like that. We became friends, and mostly what we talked about was eggs, and all the ways you could use them. I’d never met anyone who shared that same passion with me, and who cared so deeply for eggs, and the chickens that create them. Of course other animals make eggs too honey, you know that! But we were into chicken eggs. And when we got out of juvie, we continued our friendship until Johnny had to go away last year."

"And by the way little mister, where’d you learn so much about boyfriends and girlfriends?” She tickled him gently, and Billy squealed with glee, throwing his little pin-shaped towhead back in the air, the silence punctured by his annoying little laugh.

“Mama, how come he went away?”

Sylvia paused, looked down, and stroked Billy’s heavily moussed hair. This was another way Sylvia would make sure Billy had the very best. She swore that as long as SHE was in charge, Billy would have the finest hair products available, and that he would have mouse in his little hair every single day, rain or shine. The result was Billy’s enormous pompadour, standing almost two feet straight up, swirled on top into a hardened wave.

“Honey, sometimes people have to do things they don’t want to do, and then they have to go away for a little while…”

“Mama, did he rip someone off? Or rough up some old lady or something?”

“No Billy, heavens no. Johnny Eggsalad never hurt a flea. Just you worry not your little hairy head about any of that honey. Now let’s go have some egg salad sandwiches!”

Billy shouted out “hurray, hurray for egg salad sandwiches, just like we had for breakfast!” and jumped down, racing into the kitchen with abandon, listing slightly to the right from the weight of his giant hair. “Let’s make more egg salad!”

Sylvia laughed with anticipation as she followed him into the kitchen, where they would do what always brought them together. Mother, son, egg salad…”I’m lucky” she thought, “life is good.”

“Mama, did you ever see Johnny get mad or upset?”

Sylvia paused, and then nodded slowly, stopping the shelling of the fresh AA eggs to sit on a stool and look in to Billy’s little face. “I saw him just get mad once Billy. He and I were making egg salad, and I was going to add a little dab of French’s mustard. Quietly, but with the deepest voice I have ever heard, probably two octaves below his normal tone, he reached over and put his hand on the spoon. His eyes flashed with a controlled anger, and he said in that deep voice that sounded like a mutant troll, ‘Sylvia, never, ever put mustard in my egg salad.’ I paused, saying ‘well sure Johnny, that’s fine, I was just trying to add some tang and tartness, plus a little color, but fine, it’s your egg salad..’ Johnny smiled, his voice suddenly shooting back up several octaves to his normal tone, and we laughed and laughed. And that was the only time Billy I ever saw him upset. Otherwise, he was a good, good friend.”

Billy stopped, looking down, taking in the story. As he looked back up at Sylvia, his shiny hair product glistened in the sun, throwing a splash of light across the small but clean little kitchen, causing her to squint from the harsh glare. “OK Billy, let’s get these sandwiches made and get to eatin!” Laughter again filled the air, mixing with the pungent smell of eggs wafting throughout the house, a familiar smell that spelled “home” to both Billy and Sylvia. Indeed, they both thought silently as they stirred the eggs with the mayo, “life is good.”

2010-12-21T15:58:00.000-08:00

Noted Professor Attributes Beaver Fans Rooting for Ducks in BCS Title Matchup to “Stockholm Syndrome”

December 21, 2010

American Press International

Chicago

Dr. Phillip Liggenblatt, noted professor and the Director of Terrorist Studies at the University of Chicago-Smeltana campus, has weighed in on the curious phenomenon where Oregon State University graduates have begun to publicly voice their support for their long-time rival, the University of Oregon. As a part of a current study of line-crossing football fans who cheer for teams that have been mean and nasty to them and their schools, Liggenblatt has attributed this bizarre behavior to the well-known “Stockholm Syndrome,” where hostages begin to identify with their captors.

“This is really a cut and dry case of Stockholm Syndrome,” noted Liggenblatt. “What we are seeing is this paradoxical psychological phenomenon wherein hostages express adulation and have positive feelings towards their captors that appear irrational in light of the danger or risk endured by the victims, essentially mistaking a lack of abuse from their captors as an act of kindness.” The syndrome was named after the Norrmalmstorg robbery of Kreditbanken at Norrmalmstorg in Stockholm, in which bank robbers held bank employees hostage from August 23 to August 28, 1973. Victims became emotionally attached to their captors, and even defended them after they were freed from their six-day ordeal.

Liggenblatt continued, noting the history of “down and dirty” University of Oregon team and fan treatment of beavers over the years. “What we’ve seen has been a systematic effort by the historically dishonest, filthy little university in Eugene. They have gloated, taunted, and teased Beaver fans and families, even belittling small Beaver children in some settings. Their drunken taunts, filthy language, and superior attitudes have become so common place over the years, that we’ve actually seen some Beaver fans begin to wear U of O gear and post on Facebook about how they will root for Oregon in the upcoming Auburn matchup. “

Dr. Liggenblatt noted the predicable behaviours: “This is classic Stockholm Syndrome behavior, and is not surprising. Typically captives and hostages become enamored over time with glitter and bobbles, represented here by the garish and tasteless outfits worn by the University of Oregon teams.” Liggenblatt also noted that the reduced annual income of agriculture-based Beaver grads, when compared to the inflated earning power of the U of O financial sector grads, is another predictor of the Stockholm Syndrome behaviors.

“What we have is a filthy rich group of me-first cry-babies, driving big SUVS, wearing cheap and shiny leather coats and accessories, matching expensive jeans, and eating lots of sushi. Naturally, these University of Oregon graduates reflect the amoral nature of their football teams, and this provides a strong fascination to the simple farmers and teachers who attended Oregon State. While they eat at Denny’s, the Duck fans drive by on their way to El Gaucho. And this is where we begin to see the cross-over by Beaver fans, the adoration and fascination with these Ken and Barbie clothes horses with their fake tans and expensive dental work.”

When asked how Beaver fans who are suffering from this syndrome can be cured, Dr. Liggenblatt noted that once Stockholm Syndrome behavior occurs, it is difficult to turn back. “Deprogramming may be the only answer for some of these Beaver fans who have chosen to set aside years of ridicule in order to experience the cheap thrill of rooting for a national champion.” He also noted that a treatment called “Paradoxical Plaything Therapy” is also often effective. This is where Stockholm Syndrome sufferers surround themselves with Beannie Babies and other soft stuffed animals, singing to them, dressing them in Duck sporting clothing, until they become so sickened by the sight of little stuffed animals wearing Duck gear that they are jolted back to reality. “I fear that any Beaver fan who has fallen so deeply into the grip of Stockholm Syndrome will require this kind of extreme therapy,” noted Dr. Liggenblatt. “When a Beaver crosses that kind of line, it is often very, very difficult to very bring them back to any sense of reality.”

Governing Body Makes Ruling: Beaver Fans Must Root for Auburn

2010-12-09T13:47:00.000-08:00

Because I hate (just football hate, not real hate. Real, in a football way, but not real, in a George Bush way) Oregon and Washington very very much, it has been difficult to know whether I should throw my limited bowl energy behind Nebraska, who will be playing a vastly overrated Washington team (please, no more "they're BACK!" pieces in the local media, they barely eeked out a win against a miserable Cougar team, and now they are back. Please.), or behind Auburn who plays Oregon for the (I can't even say this) national title.

Nebraska and Auburn have always been on my family's default football hate list. One is from the South, and we were raised from a very early age to football-hate all southern teams. Nebraska is from the Big-8, and is a traditional "have," placing them also in the football-hate category. While the "hate southern teams" category is really more signficant and has a higher standing than the "hate Big-8, Oklahoma, Nebraska Haves" hate category, they both have over five points on our families football-hate rating tool (HRT), which puts them in very very bad standing.

A note about the HRT: The scale is one-to-ten, with the results based on a battery of scientifically validated surveys, interviews with team and university personnel, photo analysis, etc. For reference, Washington recieved a 13, Oregon a 19. Nebraska drew a 7, Auburn an eight. For further reference, Utah State is a four, Linfield a three, Willamette a 2, Cal a 6, etc.

The HRT has clear and concise tie-breaker criteria, which was needed to decide whether to rally behind Auburn as Oregon’s foe, or Nebraska as Washington’s adversary. Often in families such as mine, where football-hate takes on a shimmering glow, bowl watching resources can be easily sapped by the football-hate, occasionally forcing the hater (football-hate, not real) to select just one team to really, really, double-super football-hate.

Here is the criteria we used, from the HRT, page 12, to determine Beaver obligation to support Auburn:

Rule 6, number 9: When comparing two teams regarding which one deserves to be hated the most, the following criteria will be observed:

1. Does the cheerleader squad of the school have a mission statement? If no, that school gets 10 Hate-Points. If yes, it gets 5 Hate-Points.

2. Does the cheerleader squad of the school have a clear behavior contract? If no, that school gets 10 Hate-Points. If yes, it gets 5 Hate-Points.

3. If the cheerleader squad has a behavior contract, does it single out “back-talk” as a forbidden behavior? If no, that school gets 10 Hate-Points. If yes it gets 5 Hate-Points.

Using this criteria, Auburn received 30 points, Nebraska 15, making Auburn the most hated team. But because of Rule 6, Auburn must be rooted for against Oregon. While Auburn lacks mission statement, code of conduct, or emphasis on "back-talk" as a prohibited behavior, they do have an alumni cheerleader event, something not seen on the Nebraska site. And while this is noteworthy, it is not part of the HRT criteria, and must be disregarded.

So using the HRT tie-breaker criteria, Auburn emerges as the most hated team. BUT Rule 8 of the HRT clearly notes that when a team is playing Oregon, the team with the MOST, not the LEAST hate-points will be rooted for. This controversial rule (called the Enright Rule) has long been a source of argument and dissent, and was adopted in 1973, following Oregons’ 58-0 defeat of Washington.

Here’s where we found the information about the teams cheer squad regs, in order to address Rule 6:

The University of Nebraska Cheerleaders have a behavior contract, which is here:

http://www.huskers.com//pdf5/406090.pdf?SPSID=368071&SPID=45621&DB_OEM_ID=100 . On page 3, we find this:

Negative comments, gestures, and body language that connote a negative attitude/message, argumentative attitude, “back-talk,” or leaving an event or practice prior to dismissal, are behaviors considered in violation of this rule.

From this page, we find the University of Nebraska Spirit Squad Mission Statement. It must be noted here that it is difficult to tell from the University website what the hell is the difference between the “cheer squad” and “spirit squad.” Nonetheless, we have given the University credit for having a mission statement.

Strangely, there appear to be two distinct Nebraska Cheer Squad mission statements: One, located at http://www.huskers.com//pdf2/97251.pdf?SPSID=368071&SPID=45621&DB_OEM_ID=100, notes:

Mission: “Dedicated to Excellence” To be a valuable source of the Husker Athletic Department by participating in the athletic activity and tradition know as cheer and dance by performing at athletic events and participating in community activities.

This oddly worded item also appears to use the word “know” instead of “known,” and looks to have been composed by someone lacking a true grammarian’s command.

But then, located at here http://www.huskers.com/ViewArticle.dbml?DB_OEM_ID=100&ATCLID=204763369, a completely different, but equally incomprehensible “mission statement” also appears:

Our Mission: To serve our student-athletes, coaches, staff and fans by

Displaying INTEGRITY in every decision and action
Building and maintaining TRUST with others
Giving RESPECT to each person we encounter
Pursuing unity of purpose through TEAMWORK
Maintaining LOYALTY to student-athletes, co-workers, fans and the University of Nebraska

These are our core values. We will exhibit them as we pursue excellence in all that we do.

The Auburn cheer site http://www.auburn.edu/student_info/cheerleaders/index.html included no such information, no rules, no mention of "back-talk" or really anything reflecting the tight disciplinarian stance of the Nebraska program.

While all of this raised numerous questions, such as how does one exhibit a value (“hey, come over here and look at my value, it’s on exhibit”), the bottom line here is that trust must by placed in the automated and computerized results generated by the HRT, requiring all Oregon State Beavers Fans to root for Auburn in the game which will determine the...the…I just can’t say it.

So as they say in Auburn, “WAR EAGLE!” (It does indeed appear that this is used as a greeting, as well as a noun, judging from this Auburn alumni cheer squad alumni invition, notable for it’s vaguery and lack of detail about the referenced event.)

http://www.auburn.edu/student_info/cheerleaders/2010%20Reunion%20Information.doc)

We Predict Big Storm for Seattle on Monday

2010-11-23T00:21:00.001-08:00

Seattle, Sunday Night 0700

Our weather models show a strong storm coming on, and we predict snow, wind, and very chilly temperatures in Seattle on Monday, peaking Monday night, with continued extreme super chilliness on Tuesday.

What We Are Eating in Bath

2010-09-02T15:50:00.000-07:00

Everytime Mrs. Johnson and I travel, I swear I am going to keep track of the food we eat. And never do. Not so this trip. From me notebook:

Flew from seatac to LAX on Tuesday, sched to leave LA at 4pm for London. Skipped nasty burger on Alaska, got marooned in Tom Bradley International Terminal in LA, only a very sad Samuel Adams bar with the most foul sandos ever. Hungry, ate them, gross. Miserable little airport. Samuel Adams should be ashamed.

Flight to London 10 hrs non-stop. Normal mediocre food, rice and rubber carrots with chicken and some brown sauce. Breakfast little sticky sweet roll, sugary yogurt, jam.

Rented car at heathrow, stopped on a lark at Windsor Castle to see the Queen. Ate at wonderful pub by castle called two brewers, old old place, packed with locals, had fried lamb salad and mackerel salad. Stunning, matching the sunny day. Drove two hours to Bath, wildly hallucinating last hour. Tired.

Ate dinner in Bath at Sally Lunn's touristy place in dirt old bldg, comfort food, lamb shank , beef bougonogne or however you spell it. Hot, good, pretty boring.

Today, Wed, had fruit fruit fruit, elixir of the gods, at B and B. Also fiber cereal, nice poached egg, grilled mushrooms and tomatoes. Very pleasant and medicinal. Went to bath, had lunch at local chain wagamama, good noodles, hot tofu dish, bold!!!

Came to b and b, killed time, it got late and we went to local pub, just missed dinner. Now 10am, screwed. Quiet hood, but cab was there, hopped in, asked driver about late food in downtown Bath, he is from Turkey and knew this Turkish place, Marmaris, right by the Abbey.

Really nice people, food like nothing else we've had. Dressed up waiters, super friendly in formal way, chicken casserole with chili paste that was killer. Mrs. J had lamb skewer with vegetables, fresh, clearly just cut, very lovingly served. Almost free at 8 pounds. Just the ticket. Advice to anyone who goes to Bath: go to Marmaris near the Bath Abbey.

Tomorrow (Th): trying to talk skeptical Mrs. J into vegetarian place. But one thing is known. Breakfast at the Paradise House B and B will feature fruit, fruit, fruit!!

A Stranger Yelled At Me At The Upperballard Fred Meyer Store

2010-07-11T21:19:00.001-07:00

"Mrs. Johnson" and I were shopping at the NW low-end department store "Fred Meyer" tonight, buying the usual load of odds and ends, plants, a sun umbrella, a new brand of deodorant. We were kind of worn out, but slogging through the dutiful shopping trip in good spirits. As I checked out, "Mrs. Johnson" went outside and pulled up a bag of potting soil, pulled out the trusty android, and commenced to tweeting and the like.

Which, as an aside, brings me to the interesting (to me at least) observation that one of our new hobbies appears to be complaining about each other's social media use.

But anyway, as I sit here in my upstairs office-type room now writing this, with the window wide open because it's hot, and I can hear some kind of crowd a few doors down singing and playing instruments in Greek (not a common occurrence, but very pleasurable!), I continue to mull over what happened next at the Upper Ballard Fred Meyer.

Because we had a lot of crap to load into our car, I pulled it up to the entrance, making sure to leave plenty of space for people to get by in the driveway. As we loaded up, a woman in a late model red SUV pulled up behind us, and didn't want to pass, even when I closed the doors and stepped out of the way. I figured she was the timid type, so I tried to hurry up and get going, knowing still that there were at least three feet to spare for even a bulldozer like hers to get around us.

She pulled up closer, and came along side, saying "is there room?" I smiled and said "sure, you got plenty of room, " mistaking her innocent and friendly look for warmth, instead of sarcasm. Suddenly she spit out "get some exercise, fat ass!" hit the gas, and blasted down the drive, careening the wrong way out of the garage exit.

"Mrs. Johnson" had been busy with packing up the car with all the stuff, and had missed it. I stood there puzzled, wondering if I had heard her correctly. And then I felt a little rise of anger, not like the kind my brother used to get when drunken dudes in bars would make derogatory cracks about his large size, that could lead to his rageful responses on occasion; but more a warm glow in my face, and adopting a sort of stooped stance, with a slight feel of unsteadiness.

The healthiest response to these kind of stranger insults, which are not new, but are not frequent either, is to create mental distance as quickly as possible. Even as the words "fat ass" left her lips, I began to fly at a very rapid clip away from her face, so that the few feet that separated us quickly seemed like 100 yards. It was like being attached to a giant, very powerful elastic cord, and being whipped back away from her explosively.

It felt good to get emotionally far away from her very quickly. But as I processed this, with the very patient, supportive, and appropriately pissed-off help of "Mrs. Johnson", I was reminded about the sting of what I seldom feel, but that so many of my fellow citizens feel every day. The sting of bigotry, of anger, of hateful stereotyping, the bite of comments that I seldom experience. Maybe the seeming familiarity of the moment called upon the horrible experiences of my Jewish and Native American ancestors, maybe it connected to my sadness about my brother's struggles with bias and misunderstanding related to his size and temperament, to his always being an outsider no matter where we moved to next. And I wonder what she thinks now about what she yelled, if she feels bad, or proud, or is readying another insult to throw at someone else at some other public place, as she speeds away in her red SUV.

Arlene My Produce Vendor

2010-06-21T15:15:00.000-07:00

By Guest Blogger "Mrs. Johnson"

Arlene my produce vendor died this Spring. For ten years I've bought her vegetables, especially the salad greens, every Sunday at the Ballard Farmers' Market. Arlene's greens, washed in her kitchen and sold in big zip-lock bags, were so fresh they lasted until the next Market day. Several times a week we'd eat an Arlene salad at our house. Her spinach, especially, was unbeatable. When the big spinach scare happened, we had nothing to worry about because we knew where ours came from. Members of Arlene's family carry on the produce business, Anselmo's, but their days may be numbered and they may change direction and grow fewer things. Part of my life is gone forever with Arlene's passing.

The first day of summer, with the cold and rain, not at all unusual for Seattle, seemed grayer and more depressing than usual. Maybe because it was also Father's Day this year and I miss my dad, who's been gone over 10 years now. I still have my father-in-law, luckily, but we don't get to see him as often as we'd like.

Odd things are making me sad, like the UW South Campus Candy Counter closing. Next thing you know I'll be mourning the dying blooms of the plants in our yard like a certain blog owner who wants them all to bloom all season. Which reminds me, one of our cherry trees is probably dead. I guess they only last 20 years or so, so it's all according to plan. All the babies grow up and the plants die and the bowling alley's gone.

It's a gloomy beginning to Summer this year, but we did get an old rusty push mower, free from the curb, on the way home the other night. I love the sound it makes. My niece is pregnant and there's a big supply of briquettes at our house. They say BBQing has medicinal qualities - did you know that?

Montlake Shocker: UW Huskies Football To Move to Division III

2010-06-10T14:00:00.000-07:00

Montlake Shocker:UW Huskies Football To Move to Division III

By Bart Slayden

Seattle Times

In a move shocking the national football scene, the University of Washington announced today that they will be moving their football team to the NCAA Division III, where they will be joining the Northwest Conference. Word came down from upper campus today about the move, which will be effective immediately. Rumors swirled about the Montlake campus, as stunned students and faculty tried to piece together what led to the dramatic downgrading of the once storied football program.

Many speculated that recent efforts to expand the Pacific 10 conference, the current home of the UW team, caused league officials to force the UW out, due to their lack of competitiveness over the last several years in football. One un-named source from the Pacific 10 office noted, "Let's just face it, the Huskies are one miserable program. Hell, they've lost to Oregon State five years in a row! How pathetic is that? We just felt that we needed to open up some space in the Pac-10 for more competitive teams, and UW, with their very dismal performance over the last several years, were the best choice to offload some deadwood."

Outgoing President Mark Emmert offered an upbeat spin on the news, noting hopefulness for a more competitive season against NW Conference teams: "We are confident our current players and coaching staff will match up very well with the fine programs of Linfield and Willamette, and we look forward to establishing new rivalries with UPS and PLU."

My (Brief) Life as an Occasional Chocolate Milk-Guzzling Physician Assistant

2010-04-17T14:14:00.000-07:00

Last week, I attended the Idaho Academy of Physician Assistants annual conference in Sun Valley. Skiing all day, partying all night, it was quite an event. Actually, there was no skiing, nor was there any partying to speak of, but I did go on a gondola ride up real high onto Mt. Baldy. There my wife, we’ll call her “Mrs. Johnson,” and I would eat German food at a very high altitude in the midst of an accordion player, lots of filthy rich people with extensive elective facial surgery, and at a table next to Reagan era drug czar William Bennett. This was not an official part of the PA conference, and I suspect the people next to whom we were dining with the facial cosmetic surgery were not PAs. To be fair to Bennett, who I always loathed for his politics, I must acknowledge that he did not appear to have had any notable facial surgery, with his jowls suitably baggy in concordance with his age. I don't mean to appear critical of his appearance, just mean to state the facts. In fact, I too am developing some bagginess in my own face, so have nothing against facial bagginess. Also, there are probably some PAs who have had elective facial surgery, I am sure as a profession we are not without some members who do this. Jane Fonda has, and while she is not a PA, she is concerned about the health of other people, so does have this in common with PAs.

At the conference, the Idaho Dairy Council was one of the prime sponsors. Conferences like these have exhibitors, people who pay to go and share their expertise and products. One of the primary features of having the Idaho dairy people so engaged was that there was chocolate milk everywhere, at every break, along with whole and skim. No non-fat, I suspect that doesn’t fly in Idaho.

At breaks between continuing education presentations, thirsty PAs would rush into the exhibit area, throng over the cookies, pastries, and coffee, and work their way along the snack line to the large bins of ice at the end, where the dairy products could be found. Consistently, the single-serving sized chocolate milk containers were stripped quickly and neatly from the bin, with empty small chocolate milk containers to be seen strewn all over the surrounding areas. At the end of each break, many of the bottles in the bins remained untouched, but one thing was for sure. There never, ever was any chocolate milk remaining.

And I would play a part in seeing to that. I can’t remember the last time I had so much chocolate milk as at the conference. Not particularly interested initially, impetus grew over time as I eyeballed the icy, frosted bottles sitting all akilter in the large bin of ice. Why not, I thought, I’ll have one. Chilled super-cold, the elixir went down very smooth, bringing me back to the many episodes of chocolate milk (and other flavors) drinking in my past, times long forgotten but now rushing back with vivid recollection, triggered by the ingestions of the shockingly cold, smooth brown beverage. Over the next three days I would have three more, and it took restraint to not have more. Once I snuck over, looked around, and pounded one down furtively, so as others would not see me again hunched over the chocolate milk bin. I did not want to develop this type of reputation. Not in Idaho.

As children, my brother and I were raised in a loving household where sugary snacks and beverages were not looked down upon, but in fact were exalted. “First boy out of bed gets a candy bar!” would come the cry from the kitchen on many a morning, with my brother Randy and I scrambling for jammies, laughing and hollering as we elbowed each other out of the way in a mad-dash out to the kitchen to claim our Baby Ruth candy bar, laying on the table neatly clad in the white and red wrapper, ready to rock. Our household also had a underlying foundation of fairness, so if we got out there at roughly the same time, we’d both get a 7am candy bar. What a treat! This stopped after a few months, apparently someone got to mom and told her this was not an appropriate reward system. We never knew what happened, we just knew that it came to an end. We were sad, but not that sad, just a little bit sad.

But this did not have any impact on the chocolate milk ingestion rate at our home. Nestlé’s Quik was the chosen vehicle, and we were usually allowed to work the yellow and brown canister at our pleasure, as long as it was after school. There was the expected but casual oversight about portioning, but later I would find ways to double , sometimes triple the powder amount, creating a black and thick beverage, similar in appearance to a pint of Guinness.

In eighth grade, my friend Jim Bixler in Richland introduced me to Strawberry Quik. Odd and super-gritty, this option never really held much appeal to me, and did not move me from the more traditional chocolate product. After I moved in high-school, I did send a can of Strawberry Quik (“SB" we would call it) to Jim as a joke gift, I never heard back from Jim, although did see him many years later. We briefly discussed the SB thing, but he did not seem very interested in this topic, and moved the conversation along to other areas.

The Nestlé’s Quik thing, sold to mom’s across the nation as a way to get kids to drink milk and stay healthy, would fade in our home as we entered adolescence. As a teen, it did not really seem that cool to invite some popular kid over to the house and break out the Nestlé’s Quik, culminating in a move to carbonated and bottled beverages. Still, I never lost my fondness for Quik, and would eagerly engage with this product as an adult when visiting my parents' home. Apparently Nestlé’s Quik never rots, because some of the containers I worked from must have been over 15 years old, and tasted just the same as when I was four years old.

I would gradually drift away from chocolate milk, now only drinking non-fat white in a breakfast drink, weaning myself over time. Certainly I am still prone to abusing chocolate milk, and have run into some deep trouble with Hershey’s syrup over the years. Frankly, the recent chocolate milk episode in Idaho felt more like a relapse than a celebration, but I’m pretty sure that Nestlé’s Quik won’t be showing in my home anytime soon. At least probably not. Now if you’ll pardon me, I have to go the store to get some, um, er, something.

Why Bode Miller Matters

2010-03-02T21:45:00.000-08:00

I’ve always found skier Bode Miller interesting, but just sort of. He struck me as an athlete cut from different cloth than others, but also as an arrogant SOB, like many big time athletes I’ve known. As an athletic trainer for college and professional teams, I met some really wonderful athletes, and also some first class not-so-wonderful-people. Miller seemed like the latter.

But he’s always impressed me as a rebel, a loner, someone who never really bought in to the towel-snapping, butt slapping comradery that can so often passes for teamwork. And something about that intrigued me. A little bit.

But his performance in this year’s Olympics, where he won gold, silver, and bronze medals, really struck me. Part of it was his age, now in his 30s. Part of it was the redemption angle, where the world, apparently including himself, had given up on him. You’d hardly know he existed from the media coverage. We hear yarn after yarn about all these homespun, heartwarming stories of all kinds of athletes, but there appears to be a media freeze on him. Clearly and not surprisingly he’s rankled a few reporters over the years.

I came across his first medal performance on Comcast On Demand totally by accident, and thought I’d invest four minutes in watching the replay. Go to “2010 Winter Olympics,” “HD skiing,” and then click on "Bode wins bronze HD", not to be confused with "Bode Bronze HD." The former has just his downhill run, without the yammering announcers, just the sound of the cowbell, people yelling "Bode!" as he flies down his run to redemption, the sound of his skis clattering on the snow.

It’s really something, in fact one of the most beautiful little four minute movies I’ve ever seen. It starts with him in the gate at the top of the course, one of the coaches is shouting his name, and he just stands there, almost meditating, then just gently shoves off down to start his trip down the side of the mountain. Most skiers get all set up at the start, all rigid, poles in the ground, bodies tensed and ready to explode out of the gate. He just stood there, and went.

I’m no ski-jockey, and have never been on skies in my life, but the way he skis is different than the other men. He skis more like women typically do, more fluid and bird like. Most of the top men skiers I watched are more like machines, almost robotic, as they muscle their way down the hill, trying to dominate the turns with their brute strength. Miller seems instead to drift, float, with a certain softness. He skis like Bill Walton used to play basketball for the Portland Trailblazers, with intuition, flair, but without the fist-pumping hoo haw. Miller’s demeanor on the medal stand when he won the gold medal at Vancouver was refreshing in his restraint. No howling, no showboat shenanigans. No singing along with the anthem. Just a big smile, a restrained arm raise as his parents, who look a lot like Bill Walton as matter of fact, looked modestly on.

During the four minute “Bode Wins Bronze HD”, the only sounds are of wind, people yelling, skis on the snow, and the crowd. When Miller comes within sight of the finish line, you see from behind him as he skis toward the big crowd at the bottom, and you can hear the noise swelling. His last big jump near the finish line captures his style: a little wild, a little asymmetrical, a lot fluid.

As he slides to a halt, turns and sees his time and knows he’s in the medal hunt, his expression reveals someone who just dumped a thousand pounds of demons, who can bask in the glow reserved for those who know that at least for a moment (and his moment was that downhill performance), they’ve been true to their own potential.

My Life in Professional Baseball, Part 1

2010-01-12T15:23:00.000-08:00

Thanks to the magic of what we call in our home "the book" (as in "I'll be on the book honey for a few hours, I mean minutes), my previous life as an Athletic Trainer (still an actively certified ATC, see http://www.bocatc.org/, verify my certification at http://bit.ly/6WAk3e) has joyfully resurfaced, with the reconnecting on Facebook with many old friends who I worked with from 1986-1990, during my tenure in the minor leagues with the San Francisco Giants. Them were some times, they was. Accompanied by spouse "Mrs. Johnson", we rolled through the wastelands of Iowa, Illinois, Louisiana, Mississippi, Texas, Kansas, and Arkansas for four seasons, milking every last bit of laughter, hijinks, friendship, new foods, and the ever-present tedium for every last drop. Some of the stories must never be told, but one of the most thrilling capers involved "payback time" for an abusive, leather lunged fan in Shreveport, Louisiana, the home of your Shreveport Captains.

Mind you, while it was an intense work schedule, with 140 games in 142 days, there was plenty of time hanging in the dugouts and coming up with amazing schemes. On Shreveport, there was a character named Doug Robertson, a hard-throwing pitcher with thin skin, a high voice, and a great laugh. He was a closer, the relief pitcher whose job was to come into the game late, with the Captains in the lead, and hold the opponents off. For my many non-baseball friends, that's called a "save." Doug had been roughed up a little, and Mr. Leatherlungs in the stands loved nothing more than to let Doug have it. He'd yell at any player, that was part of his fun, but he really loved to take Robertson apart. "Hey Robertson, say hi to all my friends in Clinton, cause that's where you're headed!!" Clinton was the single A minor league team a step down from double A Shreveport, and this was supposed to be a big insult.

All of the team was sick to death of this fan. Doug and I were chatting during a game, and came up with the idea of paying a teenage fan ten bucks to "accidentally" dump a gargantuan soda all over the dude. Using the batboy as our conduit (the oldest trick in the book, batboys have been used as conduits for some of the most heinous acts ever committed), we coughed up the ten bucks, and let the show begin. Within ten minutes, a young teen made his way down the walkway of the seating section directly visible from the Shreveport dugout. Clearly the spiller was nervous, and he paused several times, lingering around the railing below which the screaming fan sat just a few rows.

Suddenly the young soda-toting co-conspirator made his move, walking briskly, then faking a trip, and dumping the entire massive soda on the head and shoulders of the fan, seated directly below the walkway. The spiller did a marvelous job with his "man, I'm really sorry mister!" act, while the fan leaped to his feet shocked and breathless, as of course anyone would be after having two quarts of freezing cold cola drink dumped on them in 90 degree weather. Swearing and grumbling, he dried himself off and sat back down after a few minutes. Those of us in the dugout in on the action had kept a poker face throughout, avoiding the urge to point into the stands and burst into laughter. He was much quieter the rest of the evening, occasionally staring suspiciously straight in the Captains dugout, perhaps wondering if what had happened might not have been an accident after all.

Dementia: Fun for the Entire Family!

2009-12-30T15:14:00.000-08:00

My Dad’s got just a touch of dementia, which is not surprising with him now halfway through his ninth decade. It’s sprung up with some starts and stops, really getting my attention a few months back when I was taking him and his wife from a hotel to their cruise ship, for a long-planned trip to Alaska. As we were placing his bags in the trunk, he was clearly unsure whether we were loading, or unloading. I put the bags in, turned to tend to some other car-cramming tasks, turned back after hearing him close the trunk, only to see that he had taken the bags back out. He looked completely baffled, a look I know far too well from going through a dementia thing with my mom. The worst for her was when we were eating in a restaurant, with her staring at her fork, knife and plate with a look of panic, not knowing what in the world she was supposed to go with any of the things in front of her.

His dementia waxes and wanes, and he has more good than bad days. This is a relief for us all, although I think there is a lingering and gnawing fear that it’s going to get worse. At a recent gathering, we in fact we able to turn dementia into family fun! Dad was trying to tell us about an experience he’d had in a pizza parlor, but he couldn’t find the word “pizza.” He’s doing a pretty darned good job of being insightful about his dementia problems, and one thing he’s getting good at is relaxing during his word-finding struggles.

We were all sitting around a table when he couldn’t find the word “pizza", and suddenly we turned it into a light-hearted version of charades. “Oh, what is it...it’s this place you go…dam!” The questions started to fly:
Q: (us)“What do you do there?”
A: (him)"Drink Beer!”
Q: (us)“Is it a place you go and pay for food?”
A: (him) “Yes”
Q: (us)“What else do you do there?”
A: (him)“…you check things off, you say I’ll have this, and this, and this…”

Suddenly there was a pause, then someone blurted out “PIZZA! IT’S A PIZZA PARLOR!” The table erupted into congratulatory laughter, with Dad joining right in, laughing with the rest of us.

Yogurt Crisis Averted: Now Which Way is North?

2009-11-18T20:03:00.001-08:00

I polished off all the yogurts exactly as planned, leaving the house and "Mrs. Johnson" two yogurts while I jetted off to Philadelphia. My entire life has been centered on maintaining my coveted MVP status with Alaska Airlines, meaning that I'd have to travel on Alaska one final time in 2009. So it was Alaska to Chicago, then American to Philadelphia, making for a three hour visit to O'Hare. I did not know before hand that O'Hare was named after Maggie O'Hare, the founder of the American cow. Some call her "the mother of agriculture", and one of her most famous quotes is "if a cow is big enough to pee, it is big enough for me."

MVP status on Alaska is really quite something, you can book exit row seats, both for me and "Mrs. Johnson" when we travel. She often accompanies me on my business trips, and in turn I accompany her on hers. And there is nothing quite like spousing it on a business trip to spell relaxation. "You go ahead on to the meeting honey, I'll be here with the 97 inch flat screen and room service. And by the way, if you encounter hotel staff on the way down to your meeting, will you send them up with some limes? Thanks Honey, have a great day!!!"

But such was not the case on the Philly trip, "Mrs. Johnson" was all worn out from a previous trip. There is a certain luxury in knocking around foreign towns unencumbered, foot-loose, and fancy free, but that gets old in about 12 seconds, and I start wondering what "Mrs. Johnson" might say about those dogs, that building, this plant, those weird dudes.

I stayed in the downtown Westin in Philly (I guess it's OK to call it that, that's what locals call it, unlike Frisco, where you'll get laughed off the Coit Tower if you call it Frisco. By the way, am I the only person who has ever been a little uncomfortable saying "Coit Tower"? )

I'd been to Philadelphia (we'll mix it up a little, "Philly" here, "Philadelphia" there) twice before, and felt like I knew the downtown area a little. But this time, I struggled mightily with the "which way is north" problem, so much that I'd walk outside the hotel, and stand there, with my hands to my temples, eyes half closed, trying to remember if I was facing north, or south. It started to hurt my head, like really give me a headache like you get when you try to focus on something really close.

I finally developed a very sophisticated memory trick: "when you come out of the hotel (speaking to myself, you meant me), you are facing Seattle." Still, even with that lame little maneuver, I spent far too much time trying to figure out if I was facing N or S. After a while, I tried to talk myself out of the whole thing, saying to myself "you are missing the scenery, the people, everything because you are standing in the middle of the sidewalk with your hands to your temples and your eyes half closed trying to figure out where is north, you fool!"

Talking tough to myself seldom works, although it did finally allow me to quit smoking a few years back. When I was in college (which time??) I put up signs that had some swear words on them on my wall, they said "if you smoke you are a blankety blank blank". My dad came by one day unannounced and was looking at the signs, he said, "isn't that nice." I tried to explain that the signs were meant for me, not others, but it made no sense to him, like many things about my life, so he just smiled and we moved on to other topics, such as the current status of the Oregon State University Beavers football program.

My Yogurt Dilemma: Tonight I Have To Eat Four Containers

2009-11-11T16:27:00.001-08:00

I've backed myself into a yogurt-colored corner, thanks to my shopping while hungry. I'm on this big stupid diet, and consequently am frequently famished. So going to the store can be disastrous.

I've always been an overenthusiastic shopper anyway. One of the things that really drives "Mrs. Johnson" crazy is when I buy a squash, say I will take it to work and microwave it, and then let it rot in the the fruit bowl instead. Now I have to say, I usually do take it to work and microwave it, cut the little fellow in half, scoop out the insides, and micro it for about five minutes. And when it comes out, one word comes to mind: Ten-Der! Particularly with just a dash of pepper, maybe a tiny bit of butter, sometimes even a little bit of peanut butter, or a hint of honey. Look out.

But most recently, it rotted in the fruit bowl, and I got an earful on that one. Rightfully so.

But that brings us back to yogurt. I bought seven of them, and first of all, made a big mistake and got four non-fat (correct), three low-fat (incorrect). And if that was not bad enough, I got seven yogurts during a week that I will be gone for most of the time on a professional trip to Philly.

So now, it's come down to Wed night, and I leave on Thursday, and I've only eaten one yogurt. "Mrs. Johnson" is good for maybe two tops, leaving four to account for. I could just get home before she does and throw them away, claiming that I ate them, but I would never do that.

So what I will do, and frankly I am looking forward to this a little bit, is I will go home tonight and eat four yogurts. Not all at once, maybe two at once, then one for dinner, then one when I get up tomorrow. And that sounds like not a bad way to spend an evening. Who knows, maybe me and "Mrs. Johnson" will sit on the couch, watch Upstairs-Downstairs, and share the good times over a non-fat blueberry yogurt.

Bridgeport "Village," Tigard's Little Slice of Hell

2009-11-08T20:02:00.000-08:00

So me and Mrs. Johnson are gunning for some coffee on the way from a conference in downtown Portland to Molalla, a trashy little community to which my father and his wife have been sentenced to live. Coming off the big hill south of PDX and heading down into the long straight stretch of 1-5 that runs all they way through the mighty Willamette Valley, we sense trouble. Nothing but malls, amidst the suburban sprawl that mars the whole Portland experience. When people say "I like Portland more than Seattle," I often intially empathize. Portland's downtown is much more alive and vibrant, the street food far surpasses the hot-dog exclusivity of Seattle, and the mix of parks, space, old and new is invigorationg.

But Portland's suburban sprawl far suprasses that of Seattle with its endless plains of gross and distorted human spaces, one after another after another. The burbs in Seattle are no picnic, but Portland's freeway-fueled mall mayhem never ends. The whole predicament reminds me of Paris, where the city is contained, breathtakingly beautiful, and where once you get ten feet outside the city it's unsightly sprawl, leaving you to ask "what in the hell?"

Bridgeport Village is the name of the little piece of hell we roll into off the freeway, hoping to find a quick cup of coffee, knowing full-well that it's going to be full-on corporate. B-Vill is appalling, absolutely fraudulent and phony in it's laughable attempt to hint at a small town, with lamposts, rounded grids, hills, and mixed styles of storefronts.

We choose Peet's coffee, as the California-based chain is the only store that has an open parking slot. Where are all of these people? Thousands of cars fill every space, but precious few are outside the stores. We head in, kind of in a hurry, and fearing the worst. Once in, it's more faux tastefulness, and we take our places nervously behind two space-taking women, who appear to me to be mother and daughter. Both with matching uber-wedge hair happenings, long wool plaid coats, red-tinted hair, and big wooden shoes. We stand behind as they order, and it becomes clear they are ordering for a lot of people. Cinnamon this, pumpkin that, child cocoa this, candy cane that. Just as they complete their order and we're next, mom charges back to the ordering area, a look of panic on her face, as thought there is an emergency. "Did you tell them about the cinammon twist double splash?" she blurts out? Daughter assures her that the order is complete and accurate.

We order, and the coffee is served at about 650 degrees, singing my nose hairs and burning through the heat shield around the cup. We make our way back to I-5 and head south to Molalla, where we'll soon learn about my father's strong concerns about Halloween etiquette.

Portlandia

2009-11-06T16:00:00.000-08:00

Whenever I come to Portland, "Mrs. Johnson" and I always make our way to Portlandia. Ever since the statue was escorted down the Willamette river and driven to the Portland building amidst throngs of onlookers, the statue has moved me. The way she reaches down and offers her hand epitomizes what government should be doing. Over the years, the trees around the Portland building have grown so tall that now it's hard to see the statue. This would be one good time to take out a couple of trees so we can see the statue. In the Portland building is a unspectacular food joint with teriyaki and burgers. A sign outside on the sidewalk says "Cafe Portlandia: Burgers, get them your way" and we speculated about how Portlandia might like her burger, if she in fact thought about that kind of thing. I'm guessing she'd like it pretty plain, definitely without pineapple or avocado.

My Mother Would Be Proud of Hillary Clinton

2009-11-03T17:30:00.001-08:00

Roselea, my mom, would really be thrilled, I mean fired-up, about Hillary Clinton. Mom died in 2003, and even then thought the world of "Hillary," as she called her. There are plenty of things to feel sad about in the absence of a mom, but when I saw a picture recently of Hillary Clinton sitting in a circle with some political and tribal leaders in Afghanistan, I almost started to cry. Damn, I wish mom could see Hillary now. They had a lot in common. Pant suits were a very special thing to my mother. Not really a fashion choice, pantsuits were more of a lifestyle. Like with Hillary Clinton. But what also makes my mom and the Secretary of State so kindred is the slow, methodical, well enunciated, sharply constructed sentences that characterize both of their talking styles. That, and the claiming of equality by action, the undeniable assertion of what they both see as deserved respect.

My Neighbor Cuts the Toes Off His Shoes

2009-10-27T22:08:00.001-07:00

My neighbor Walt, who is married to Dorothy, is a great guy, she is wonderful also. They have lived here in Loyal Heights, aka UpperBallard, forever. They built a little party out building many years ago, and are in their 80s now. I was raking Walt's leaves today, actually they are mine, but they fall all over his roof and yard so I rake em, and Walt came out and said hi. I couldn't help but notice his shoes, he had moccasins on with the toes cut off. He chuckled as I said "Walt, those are some nice shoes!" and noted that he had got them in a catalog, they were too tight, he lost the paperwork, and couldn't send them back without it. "They cost 35 bucks, and I'm damned if I'm going to throw em away, so I cut the toes off and they work great." Amen to that.

Where Does Ballard (Seattle) Start and Stop

2009-10-27T21:59:00.000-07:00

Where does Ballard start and stop? Is it bordered by 3rd NW on the east, the sound on the west? Ask around, and you'll get plenty of responses, ranging from "why do you care?", to a impassioned please for extending the east border to Phinney. One friend said "that is about the stupidest thing ever to care about, it's like when people ask 'what is your favorite airline,' or when someone thinks its funny to argue about toilet paper direction." But for me it's not quite the same. Geography of neighborhood relates to history, cars, traffic, walking, tradition, shifting norms, it's all there.

2009-01-19T18:43:00.000-08:00

Pretty Picture

2008-03-26T17:55:00.001-07:00

Rotten Deal

2008-03-22T00:02:00.000-07:00

http://pictopia.com/perl/ptp/detnews/?ptp_photo_id=126091

From easing depression to lowering triglycerides, spending time with a pet can boost physical and emotional health.

2008-03-03T00:54:00.001-08:00

http://www.webmd.com/video/pets-health-see-spot-feel-happy

Even More Recent Evidence That Synthetic Turf is a Bad Idea

2008-03-03T00:50:00.001-08:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2008/02/29/nyregion/29turf.html?ref=nyregion

Why Synthetic Surface is Stupid

2008-03-03T00:49:00.000-08:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2007/10/28/nyregion/nyregionspecial2/28turfwe.html