Weekend Highlights

I decide to get my Christmas shopping done early on Friday afternoon. I make my way through the bleak spitting cold to Pike Place to see if the guy who makes the beautiful candles is there this year. He is not. There are rows of bright fruit like jewels made out of water. They seem to be lit from within, emitting some kind of powerful, clean energy. There is a man singing French Christmas carols without any accompaniment. He breaks my heart and I give him a dollar. Then this tall old guy with a white beard harmonizes with him in a reedy tenor. They sound like cartoon animals and it's cute and funny. I go downstairs to get a bowl of my favorite chili, but there's a sign on the window that says they've all gone to a funeral. I start to head back toward downtown and hear this massive bang. I turn around and see that a car has run into a bus. Nobody seems to be injured.

Later that night, I'm singing the concert and everything goes fine. Then halfway through "Les filles de Cadix," my dress starts to slip off. I'm wearing a shawl (which would not do my bidding at key moments, e.g. falling off my shoulders at the end of Gretchen), so there's no Janet Jackson moment, but it is distracting. It's the castanets; you have to move your arms around to keep them loose, which is the problem.

The next night at the office Christmas party, unbelievably, I score a power drill in the gift exchange. My cheerful boss' grumpy (but well meaning) husband shows me how to change the bit and clip on the battery. He is impatient and I don't like performing mechanical tasks in front of other people. I tell him I'm glad he's not teaching me how to drive a stick shift.

The next morning, Jasmine and I drive very very slowly over the black ice to church, where I must sing to pay back for using the place for the concert. All is crisp and crunchy and the sun is out. In the middle of Ave Maria (Schubert), I have the bizarre sense that my hands are enormous- I am clasping them loosely, and they feel like they extend all the way down to the floor. I am concentrating on remembering the words, but cannot help but enjoy this strange, trippy feeling. I wonder if I've suddenly turned into some kind of synesthete, or if god is talking to me this way. Every time I get up to sing, this adorable woman with curly black hair and eyes like jet beads starts to bawl. I stare out the window and resist the urge to cry with her.

I-5

Last night, the interstate was lined with bright orange barrels. I saw a person in what appeared to be a full HAZMAT uniform standing still among them. Later on the bridge, there were two cars pulled over to the shoulder. One of the cars looked like it was totally crashed up in front, and there was a man walking toward it with his hands behind his head. Maybe the consuming darkness is making me hallucinate. Maybe I'm caught in a Flaming Lips video and I don't know.

In other news, I came up with the dumbest name I could think of while walking to work this morning: Brentany. Get it? It's a combination of Brent and Brittney. But the Brentanies of the world appear to be all over Myspace, so I guess someone thought it was allright.

4th and Pike

City sidewalks, busy sidewalks, empty stores and not too many people in the post office either- at least for this time of year. It's not too cold, though the sun has not appeared since Saturday. We are hanging out in various stages of being broke and unemployed. This raw looking young lady is wandering around in traffic, having some kind of aggressive but cheerful psychotic episode. She is messing with people and she thinks we're funny because we're not high, I guess. Maybe she's right.

Pictures from the trip

The Agony and the Ecstasy

I've been on a Carnival Ecstasy Fun Ship for the past several days, having neither money nor inclination to computer it up very much. Therefore, at the risk of great self-indulgence, I offer...journal excerpts!

Nov. 28
Plane #1, leg #4. The longest and most crowded LA to Houston. So I'm guessing 3 more hours, crying baby and the old guy has colonized the armrest. He is sporting a blue cotton onesy. Baby probably is too.

I wonder about the difference between work and ease. I wonder about the miniscule changes that slowly change our bodies and the mountains.

***

Here I am at the Baymont, crashing in on Sue and Flor, who is a fantastically, archetypally cool and outspoken Persian Manhattenite- descended from royals, unsurprisingly. She wears a brand of French perfume called Grain de Soleil, and she definitely rocks the room. The wedding party is fabulously diverse. My little head was swimming from all the stimulating swirl of Farsi, French and Flemmish.

Nov. 29
Jasmine is a married woman. The lead-up was quite tragic. Alex, Lisa and I wanted to hang out with Jas in her dressing room and help her get ready, but we were roundly rejected by Sue, who literally shut the door in our faces. Why did all those other people get to be in there while her old friends and sister were sent away? It was not like the Estee Lauder commercials and it was not fair! I felt especially bad for poor Ale, who is perhaps having trouble with the whole cruise thing and Jasmine's further removal.

The ceremony was simple and fast, but those kids belong together, so who needs more than that?

Nov. 30
The evening star, sickle moon, and the smell of industrial air freshener wafting out into the open air. The sea is impossibly lovely with its shifting skin. There are pockets of space on this boat without slot machines and disco, with the sound of the water breaking on the side. I think there's so much to learn just from watching how the water moves. I so enjoy the creaking and sighing of the boat from my little cabin.

Dec. 1
Our Cozumel snorkeling adventure! A stingray, swarms of lovely fish with huge eyes, dazzling irridescent freckles on scales like black velvet. Curious fish, cute and near. Brain corals, fan corals, sprawling flat russet organisms with breathers like organic smokestacks. A tiny, transparent jellyfish friend with a roundish, whimsical body and tiny cilia-type movers. Jasmine hypothermic, Koen's brother predictably unimpressed. I was!

I just ascended to the upper deck to enjoy the gloaming with a cup of coffee. The wind blew my skirt straight up, and of course I'm wearing my one and only pair of shocking pink drawers. Spilled coffee the hell all over myself. As luck would have it, I am all in beige tonight. Time to hit the steam room.

Dec. 2
Bus to Uxmal. Excellent history lesson from our guide, then he promoted a tourist book.

What must they think of us? We are herded like docile draft animals. We are constantly eating! Last night after dinner, it was announced that the Mexican buffet would be served on the Lido deck in one hour. (I did have a gander at the architecturally stacked cream cakes with strawberries and lacy red caramel sheets rising up flamelike. The watermelon sculptures. But that feast was only for the eyes of stuffed me.) But what must they think? I have met not one American who works on the boat. How can we really take so much and have no pause or shame? Sure, it's a relaxing cruise where folks can let it all hang out, which is wonderful, but the slovenly excess is embarrassing.

***
Chaak- #1 in Uxmal til Toltecs supplanted him with Quetzalcoatl
King entered inner chamber through mouth
Tlaloc- god of rain w/moustache
Ik- god of wind- spiral design
huge storm depicted on gov. palace w/king in center controlling
Chaak- diamonds = lightening
Venus (star) = war
Venus is morning star at harvest time, when king went with army to collect taxes...or else.
Toltecs- 11th cent.

***
Uxmal. So beautiful! I wonder how the Mixteca feel about their ancestry, two sparring elements. Hard enough having two parents; one can only imagine having two cultural heritages, one having all but destroyed the other.

***
Port of Progresso. Charming little mariachi ensemble, but they are playing Miami Sound Machine covers. Alas. Still, this seems to be a relatively unjaded bunch of Mexicans. The tour boat comes on Tuesday, and they sell to us, but I think it's only once a week. I got some weird stuff for my friends, although did not find a charm like the one Carlos sold to me for a kiss.

Dec. 3
A storm-tossed night at sea. I'm still a little shakey from last night's dancing and fun (I joined a soul train and everything), and this is most unhelpful. Could hardly touch my dinner as it rocked before me. The only knot of our party that I could find was watching an awful comedian, so I'm here turning green in my cabin. ...que la houle incline en silence.

Dec. 4
I think I've imprinted on Jasmine's family. I miss them so much it aches, and who knows if or when I'll see them again. I am drowning my sorrow in an airport latte to the strains of hoarse young men singing ultra-tender love songs with hawanging accoustic guitar, reassuring and monogamous.

***
At last, the plane to Seattle. Bovine Texans to shovey Kansas City to grouchy, paranoid Seattlites. Not my people. No.

Cornily enough, the ship trip opened my mind. I learned about being an outsider and the arrogance of majority. About fitting in and accepting the culture of that majority while maintaining a richness of self and making a kind of cloth out of it all. I learned about relaxing and enjoying a ride you can't control. Of course, I was just an interloper, but I tried to pay attention.

Lip Balm

What you see here is Wet 'n' Wild Megamix lip balm. It comes in umbrella drink flavors such as Mango Margarita, Cosmo-tini and Jungle Juice. Let me tell you that NO self-respecting woman uses Wet 'n' Wild products; if one did, she would be me. Therefore, this lip gloss is for little girls and young teens. Is this acceptable?

The Wonderful Smell

There is a wonderful smell that hovers between the ballet studio and the Intiman Theater as I walk to and from work each day. I have tried and tried to identify it, and I don't think there's a single type of plant or tree that I haven't sampled and crushed in my hand to try to find the source of the smell. (My olfactory ventures sometimes result in the discovery of a human sleeping like a deer in the autumn leaves, but I can usually sniff him out well before any actual intrusion.) Sometimes I stumble upon it in other places, but I can never find its source. And now the season is ending and the smell has been getting fainter. This morning I couldn't smell it at all. But then our 8 o'clock appointment came in with orange lipstick smeared all over the lip of her Tully's cup...and she smells for all the world like the smell! Now, I enjoy guessing at the various scents that people carry, but I never ask the temps what perfume they use. I could not resist asking this one. She said she wasn't wearing perfume at all, but that I was probably smelling her Herbal Essences shampoo (probably rose or strawberry, she said). People often bear the unique Seattle outdoor smell when they come in here, and I wonder if the magical smell is some kind of aeri-alchemical melding of many sources, arising spontaneously when the mix is just right.

Relief

Economic turmoil spells my hours being cut spells a sunny afternoon in the park! Day seems to dawn about every 72 hours lately, and today was fine and actually warm. I was overcome with ease on my way home, and I curled up on a bench in the Seattle Center along with the other bums. I stayed there for about an hour watching the fountain and the kids sluffing class.

Street Kids

This is a rainy city, so pretty much every store entrance has a little covered space by the door, and street people curl up in them like birds in a dovecote each night. One little series of abandoned storefronts shelters an array of young people. Each morning on my way to work, I see them, still curled up in their sleeping bags or just getting started on a big 32 ounce PBR. They are fascinating, but I worry about them.

You Chose A, Then A, Then A: Down the hatch!

The tiny vial is surprisingly heavy. There is some kind of ornate pattern carved on its sides- little pictures of cats and hands? Your eyes are locked on Parker's irresistable gaze, but you can't help but flinch as you taste the nastiness in that vial. Formaldehyde, rotten potato pulp and fox urine, you guess. Worse still is the texture, which manages to be both slimy and powdery as it coats your convulsing tongue. You really want to hurl, even though Parker is watching, but the stuff seems to press itself down your throat. His/Her face is still, but his/her eyes dance. "What was that?" you try to gasp, but all that comes out is "GLAAAAAGGH!" Your throat is numb, and the numbness seems to be spreading to your chest, your face, shoulders... You drop to your hands and knees. Everyone is looking at you, but you don't care. Your body feels like a bag of eels. Parker steps in front of you, "I'll deal with him," he/she says, and hauls you into a bedroom. "Lie down," he/she says gently, "you're going to be fine."

And you seem fine. Who knows how long you were lying there with Parker smoothing your fevered brow, but suddenly you feel...quite grand, actually. You stand up, embarrassed. "Whoa, that was really something," you stammer, wondering if you'll ever hear the end of this little episode. But your voice sounds different, rougher and deeper. You see something move in the corner and your eyes dart to a hulking, ragged spectre standing there. Its eyes shine yellow and deepset in its strange, gaunt face. You and the creature startle one another in the same moment. "GLAAAAGGH!" it screams. Just then, you realize that you're looking at a mirror. You turn to Parker. "Glaagh?" you whimper. "Come on," Parker says, glazing your muddled heart with a winning smile. She takes you by your yellowed, papery claw and leads you right out the window.

He/She leads you through the dark night, all the way to the harbor. There is a strange-looking ship rocking gently on the water. It is long and delicate, and so old that you are astounded that it stays in one piece. Parker gives your claw a squeeze and leads you on board the vessel, into the single, rickety stateroom. Inside, the room looks enormous and luxurious. Rich fabrics adorn the walls and fine golden things are strewn all about. You feel a gentle press against your leg and look down to find a sleek black cat gazing up at you. Parker turns to you with sudden concern. "I hope it's okay," he/she says, "you just seem so nice and I've been so alone for such a long time. This was the only way I could bring you with me." You couldn't be more pleased. "It's wonderful," you grunt in your rough, booming voice. Parker smiles. He/She claps her hands once, and the barque begins to rise up into the air, sailing freely into space...into the sun...into eternity...

The End.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

You Chose A, Then A, Then B: You don't need that stuff to have a good time.

You look dubiously at the little vial. "I'm trying to cut back," you joke. Parker smirks and unscrews the cap. He/She turns around and dumps whatever it is into the punch bowl. "Maybe this will be even better," he/she says with eyes glittering.

Two people go for the punch, but you feel too shy to warn them. They really seem to like it! Before you know it, everyone at the party is standing around drinking punch like it's an oasis in the burning desert. Everyone but you and Parker. Suddenly, they start convulsing and panting on the floor. "GLAAAGH!" they cry. Horrified, you reach for your cell phone to call for help, but Parker stays your hand. "They're almost finished," she says steadily. "Are you crazy?" you scream, but the writhing party-goers fall silent. They look different. Their skin seems to glisten and their eyes look wider. You gasp as you observe tiny vertical slits opening in their skin just under their ears. Your friend Call blinks at you, but his eyelids slide in the other direction now. Parker stands before the bewildered crowd. "Now," he/she says, "come with me."

You follow numbly as Parker leads the horde of weird fish-people into the street and all the way down to the harbor, where a ghostly clipper rocks gently. The fish beasts stride into the water underneath the ship. Parker hops on board and looks back at you. "Happy Halloween," he/she says as the ship begins to move out into the water...

The End.

You Chose A, Then B, Then A: Make your move and don't worry about who's watchin'

You slide your arm along the top of the loveseat and bring your hand to rest lightly on Parker's shoulders. A shiver runs though you when your arm touches her skin. She feels alarmingly cool...or is it just your nerves? He/She looks at you out of the corner of his/her dazzling eye. Without thinking, you mutter "wanna get out of here?" Parker raises an eyebrow and nods. Well that does it. Your mind is racing to think of a diversion for your lousy friends, when Parker suddenly yelps "oh no! I totally forgot!" He/She pulls out a cell phone and flips it open. "Damn," he/she says, "I can never get any reception with this thing. Does this building have a roof or something?" Whoa! Never heard that one before. You smile and the two of you leave the apartment. "I was bluffing," he/she admits. "Want to go to the roof anyway?" you offer.

You are all alone with the city twinkling below you. Parker wraps his/her arms around you. His/Her hair smells amazing. You sigh as you feel cool lips right under your ear. And then. Blinding pain explodes in your neck as all your blood is ripped from your body! Ouch! No!

The End.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

You Chose A, Then B, Then B: Go to the damn party *grumble grumble*

A Red Vine glances off your nose and you sigh. "Anybody up for that party?" you say.

GO BACK TO BLOG ENTRY:
You Chose A then A again: Party time!

You Chose B, Then A, Then A: That voice is full of promise!

You peer into the gloom and see a sliver of light coming from the back. "Hello?" you call. "Back here!" the voice chuckles, but it's a sexy kind of chuckle. You go to the light and open the door. You can't believe your eyes! Lounging all about the luxurious room are the most attractive people you've ever seen- all the same sex- and they appear to be having a slumber party. Your feasting eyes are nevertheless drawn to the giant urn full of candy in the center of the room. The best looking of the bevy comes toward you, "make yourself at home," he/she says. "Thanks," you say, and grab a Whatchamacallit. As you begin to eat, somebody playfully throws a pillow at you. They all laugh and a wildly cute pillowfight commences. Someone gets ahold of your arms and legs in the confusion. "Put me down!" you laugh, but they don't. Those minxes. Someone slips a soft blindfold over your eyes as they haul you about. This is fun!

They take you into a room with a peculiar humming sound and set you down lightly on a hard chair and you hear them giggle as they run away. You push the blindfold off your eyes. You are in a windowless room filled with sewing machines and people working steadily. Some people appear to be napping in cots that line the walls. Beside each worker, there is a bowl of candy. As you watch, you see robotic arms periodically refill the bowls. You look at your own table, with its requisite bowl of delicious candy and select a Sugar Daddy. A tiny electric shock runs through your seat as your sewing machine comes to life. Oh, so that's how it is. Mmmmmm, that caramel tastes good! You get to work....

The End.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

You Chose B, Then A, Then B: Those kids better get ready, cause you are bigger and more ravenous

Yikes! You are not going in there. You turn tail and trot back out into the street. Everywhere there are gleaming pumpkins, friendly decorations and children carrying ready-made bags of treats just for you! You caper about, robbing the youngest of their loot. You snatch! You dash! It's so easy! After about an hour of this, your body feels a little strange. All that sugar has created a lot of mucous in your throat. You duck into a little alley to do some unsavory spitting. You cough and hack, but the mucous is stuck there in your craw. Losing patience, you suck the glob of goo into your mouth, but it's too large to just spit out. You reach with your fingers and grab the slippery mass. With one motion, you manage to pull a phlegm wad the size of a kitten out of your mouth. Whew! That was cathartic.

You look down at the glistening mass. It quivers and coughs. It begins to breath. Before your very eyes, the creature bends itself into an insect-like form. It slowly stretches itself to articulate its segmented body, and its tiny, crumpled wings begin to expand. You stand by protectively as this transformation occurs. Finally, the little wings hum into action and the strange creature rises up to eye level. Its face is heart-shaped, like an oversized wasp, and it cocks its head at you and makes a small, inquisitive sound. You unwrap a carton of sugar babies and toss one into the air. The creature darts to catch it. It makes a contented purring sound and makes an affectionate circuit around you before it flies off into the night.

The End.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

You Chose B, Then B, Then A: She's spooky, but maybe her heart's in the right place

You follow the girl down the dank stairs into a basement room. As your eyes adjust to the dim light from the street, you see two shiny tables and what looks like stacks of cheap styrofoam coolers. Then your eyes dart to the three figures ghosting toward you from the shadows. You turn to the door in time to see the tiny girl throw an enormous deadbolt home. "Is it going to work this time?" she asks the others. "Only one way to find out," replies a hoarse teenage voice. You whirl around and head for the door. The girl blocks it and you grab her by the shoulders to move her out of the way. She is completely immovable. She lifts her arms up to grasp your waist and her grip is like a steel vise. As she does this, the burlap cloak falls back from her chest, and you see a wire mesh covering what looks like an strange cavity where her lungs should be. She throws you onto one of the tables like a sack of rice. She then takes off her cloak and hoists her own tiny frame onto the other table. "Hurry up," she croaks, "I'm running out of time."

Some bright lights go on as hands press you down, securing your body to the table. You look over to the girl, who is opening up her chest like a bird cage. She lifts out a mess of spoiled meat and rubber tubing and gives it to one of the boys, who begins to pick it apart. She turns her haggard little face to you. "I'm sorry I have to do this to you," she gasps. Someone shoves a rubber mask over your nose and mouth. You struggle to keep your eyes open for awhile. The last thing you notice is the girl's strange ear. It is too large, too old for the rest of her face, and it seems to hang a bit slack from her head. You wonder how long she can keep this up.

THE END

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

You Chose B, Then B, Then B Again: No way you're going down there!

You turn on your heel and get the heck out of there. Before you have time to say "Clearasil," you are surrounded by three extraordinarily dour looking teenage boys. They are standing close to you, but their faces have no expression. They have an odd, unwholesome smell, like Juicy Fruit and vinegar. "Step aside, fellas," you begin to push right through them, but they all grab you at the same moment, as if they had one mind between them. You wrench yourself free and run to the nearest public space- the corner pub. You rush to the bar and demand to use the phone. "There are some freaky kids out there and this little girl. I'm afraid she might be in trouble," you say. A burly character in a skeleton shirt turns to you, "let's go check it out," he says.

Soon, you have a little posse of people. You lead them back to the alley. The boys come lurching out of the darkness toward you, but they have greater numbers just as you do. You don't have time to count them all as the weird crowd comes abling your way. It's confusing. Then one of the boys grabs the burly guy and bites him right on the neck! Blood gushes everywhere and the poor guy howls in pain. Your posse panics, rightly, and people scatter. Some of them get caught by the weirdos and suffer the same fate. You hear a familiar voice calling to you from the stairwell. "Get over here!" hisses the burlap-clad girl. You go to her and she pulls you out of harm's way. "Light this for me, will you?" she hands you a book of matches and a bottle with a rag hanging out of the top. You light the rag and hand it to the girl, who lobs it into the melee with a firey crash. You keep the projectiles coming as the girl chucks them into the thinning zombie horde. "What is going on?" you demand when there's time to speak. "I have to destroy all of them before they get out of control," she sighs. You look at her bloodshot eye, "How do you know about this? Why is this your responsibility?"

She fixes you with a long gaze and opens her burlap cloak, revealing a wire mesh protecting a strange cavity where there ought to be bones and lungs and skin. A hideous rotting smell peeks out from her body. "He made me. And then he had to make them to keep me alive. They will spread their kind, but they will go back to him. Then he means to harvest the parts that still work and replace the parts of me that have...have..." She looks down, ashamed. You want to comfort her, and you reach for her hand. It feels like a glove slipping off. She starts and you realize that the skin of her hand has just come off of its bones. "I don't have much time left," she says. Oh, so that's why she couldn't light a match.

You survey the creatures recovering in the alley. "Are you sure you want to destroy them?" The girl looks exhausted, "more than anything," she breathes. There are no molotov cocktails left in the stairwell, but there is a gas can, still about half full. You take off your clothes and douse your shirt with fuel. "Stand back," you say, dropping a match. "When I say now, pick it up with my jeans and throw it at them," you tell the girl. You pick up the gas can and run into the midst of the zombies, who lurch toward you. You wait until the last possible second before throwing gas on them. "Now!" you yell, and your flaming clothes come flying into the knot of flamable undead. You have saved the day! The burlap girl is not looking too great. She collapses and you carry her into the basement room. She thanks you before perishing in your arms.

The End.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

The End.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

You Chose A then A again: Party time!

You and your buddies arrive at the home of one of Cal's coworkers from the biology lab. These people are more drunk and flamboyant than befits such phenomenal book learning. The living room is cleared out for dancing and Parker leads you to the floor. You feel understandably shy. Whilst grooving to the thudding beat, Parker pulls out a tiny vial from...his/her pocket? sleeve? nowhere? Those smoldering eyes sparkle into yours, "drink this."

Do you
A) Drink that or
B) Just say no

GO!

You chose A, then B: Get that sumptuous creature to stay with you!

You take your shot. "We could start this movie over for you," you go to your DVD collection, "I've got all four. I've got other ones too," you kick yourself mentally for acting like such a dope, but Parker seems to be into it. "Boo!" says Cal, but Joe reads your vibe and helps your cause.

Half an hour later, you and Parker are loafing on the loveseat, taking in the carngage...while your three buddies sprawl on the lovesack and the floor. Cal keeps throwing smarties at your face. You already tried to divide yourself and Parker from the pack with a beer run, but Cal really seems to be enjoying this.

Do you
A) Put your arm around Parker even though your crew is there to taunt you or
B) Just go to the stupid party. It couldn't be worse than this

GO!

You Chose B, then A: Grab that bottle and look out the window!

Enough is enough, you grumble as you jerk open the curtain with your free hand. There is a teenage boy in a cheap vampire costume just inches away from you. The thing is, your apartment is on the fourth floor. The boy's eyes are rolled back in his head and his features look blank. Before you have time to react, his hand jumps through the broken pane and whomps you on the chest. The force of it sends you and the boy flying in opposite directions, you into the coffee table, he into the dark night. Lying there on your back, you feel oddly serene. You feel around on the floor with one hand and pick up a mini Reese's. It's the best thing you've ever tasted. You hunt around until every peanut butter cup has been consumed. The smarties sound pretty good at this point, so you scoop up the bag and venture out in the night in search of more.

The streets are filled with drunk people wearing costumes, and they take no notice of your stocking feet and your messed up shirt. You think of the drugstore, but you forgot your wallet. You need candy! You head up the hill into the residential part of your neighborhood. Little kids are running around everywhere with bags full of...full of... why do you want it so? Unable to stop yourself, you run up to some tykes and yell "GRAAR!" and snatch a plastic pumpkin away from a tiny goblin. So easy! You duck behind a hedge and gorge yourself. When it's over, you look around for another target, but you get a better idea. You walk up to the door of the house behind which you cower and ring the bell. "Trick or treat!" you yell. The door opens, but it's dark and sinister. "Come on in!" a voice calls from within, "Candy's in here!" Your stomach growl, desperate for more sweets. The voice sounds pretty friendly.

Do you
A) Go inside or
B) Forget it. Go steal from some more children.

GO!

You Chose B, then B again: Open the door to the sneering girl

Time to put a stop to this madness and talk sense to these monsterous children. You open the door and your heart jumps. The girl is small, and she's covered head to foot in burlap. Just one bloodshot eye is exposed, and it fixes you with a baleful look. "You're not safe here," she says, drifting past you into the room. She goes to the broken window and pulls back the curtain. "They're gone. This is our only chance," she says flatly, "come on." She takes your arm and begins to tug you weakly toward the door. "Hold on a minute," you say, "who are you people?" A ragged chuckle wrenches itself from her throat. "Now or never," she says. The draft from the window skims the back of your neck. Nonsensically, you grab your keys and follow her out the door.

The street is lined with drunk people in costume and nobody takes any notice of you with your shirt all messed up and the bizarre young girl leading you into the night. You follow her into an alley and down into some filthy, narrow stairs into some kind of basement storage room. You hesitate, as one would. She turns and gazes up at you. "We don't have much time. They're already coming," she whispers.

Do you
A) Follow her in or
B) Turn around and walk away

GO!

You Chose A: Take the smarties and scram!

You open the door, the bag of smarties gaping in your hand, but standing before you are your three best friends and....someone you've never met before. Someone hot! My god, is he/she with one of your buddies? Impossible to tell now. They show off their amazing ability to mimic teenage boys, then rib you about your slovenly state. They stride into your apartment and announce that you are going to a party with them, so you better put on a clean shirt. Or put some red food dye on that one. Cal, the pushiest of your friends, tosses you a set of vampire teeth and tells you to get a move on. Joe, your kindest friend, tells you that the megawatt hottie is her cousin, Parker. Your eyes meet as the windows shudder in the wind. You feel an odd surge go up your spine. He/she glances at the TV, "I love the shopping scene," Parker smiles.

Do you
A) Go to the party or
B) Try to persuade Parker to stay and watch the movie with you

GO!

You Chose B: Go Away, Children!

Grumbling, you gather your scattered candy off the floor and put it back in the bag. The kids knock and chant their petition a second time, and you scoff and wait for them to give up and leave. But they don't leave. You hear their muffled voices through the door. One of the boys says something and the others laugh, their young voices cracking with a sound like donkeys. Then nothing. You tiptoe to the door and peer through the peephole, but nobody's there. Well then. You settle back down to your movie. You love this part. In every zombie movie, there has to be a scene in which the main characters get to go to an empty store and take whatever they want. Some salt and vinegar chips sure would be good about now.

Suddenly, something crashes through your window! It is on fire! Without stopping to think, you grab your whiskey bottle and dump it over the flames. It doesn't help much. The stench of burning carpet fills the room as you take your blanket and hurl yourself on top of the mess. Which turns out to be a bag of poo tied to a brick. Furious, you dash to the window and peer into the darkness. You hear the braying cackle again, and you unleash a streak of foul language until one of your neighbors hollers at you to keep it down. "Not over!" you hear the grating adolescent voices yell in the distance, "We know where you live!" Their laughter sounds frantic.

You draw the curtains in front of the broken window, but the cold wind billows them into the room. You grab your phone and file a report with the police. They say that such pranks are common and there's nothing else they can do at the moment. You begin to contemplate the mess in the middle of your livingroom. There's a knock at the door, meek this time, and a young woman's voice sneers "Trick or treat." You think this can't be a coincidence and wonder if she's in cahoots with the vandals. Just then, the wind whips your curtain, and you think you glimpse someone right outside the window. Do you

A) Grab the empty whiskey bottle by it's neck and open the curtain or
B) Open the door

GO!

Zombie Temps from Outer Space

Are all the scary movies I saw this weekend attracting this parade of weirdos coming through the office today? Is that why? Am I a zombie too, forged in darkness and immune to coffee?

I've just finished webbing up the office for the Spookyween season. (I wonder if it's confusing to the Chinese factory workers who have to bag up the fake spiderweb stuff for American Halloweeners. I mean, what is that stuff?)

Anyway, in honor of the season, I now commence a new Choose Your Own Harrowing Adventure!

You're sitting around the house on Halloween night. You didn't make any plans, thinking you would just hang around the house and rewatch some George Romero movies and maybe demolish a bag of mini Reese's. You settle in with a warm blanket over your knees. The wind howls outside the window in a satisfying way. Suddenly, there's a knock at the door. It startles you and the mini Reese's go flying all over the place. "Trick or Treat!" you hear a chorus of pubescent male voices outside the door. Pushy kids must have seen the flickering light from the TV; you left your porch light off for a reason. And don't those kids sound a little too old to be doing this? Still, you've got that bag of smarties left over from the office party, and you'd rather unload them on some smart ass tweens than end up munching on them yourself. This is going to be a long night and George Evans puts funny ideas in your head. Do you
A) Open up the bag of smarties and open the door
B) Ignore them. Damn kids.

GO!

If it were not Friday, I would be concerned. I haven't had a day off for kind of awhile, what with the concerts last weekend and the one coming up on Tuesday. I hoofed it hard on the way to work, and the heel of my sock completely gave way, so now I have a couple of massive blisters there. For some reason, this gives me the overwhelming impression that I have come to the end of my rope. I don't really need any more rope, so it's okay, but after this afternoon, I'm going to need some rest and some fresh laundry.

It is warm and wet and dark outside. The testing room is full of people- not one seat remains unoccupied, and I am hobbling around madly, keeping track of everyone's timers. I seem to be the only one who showered this morning. There is a strange, human brew going on in there, not unlike the close and humid confines of public transport. One of the gals reminds me of the costume room from my high school drama department, and another smells faintly of Maalox. I hung up the one guy's coat for him, and as I grasped the inside collar, it was warm and damp.

Just returned from my "lunch break" or, as I like to call it, my "mustard bath." I don't know why, but I can't seem to get enough of these hot mustard sandwiches (with cheese and Canadian bacon to provide vehicle for yet still more mustard).

Not much else to report. We had a girl in the testing room today who smelled like some weedy, citrusy scent from Anthropologie, which was good.

This weekend, my subtilior dreams will come to fruition at last. I sort of dropped the ball on getting book lights for Saturday night. Maybe I'll bring some lamps from home to just improve the ambiance a bit. Or maybe I'll give up entirely and just turn the damn lights on. I'm just not in a detail-oriented mood these days.

Another Day, Another Trawler

The fellow in the testing room is absolutely marinated in drugstore cologne. Or maybe it's top of the line designer man-scent; I can't tell, because my brain is occupied with just staying conscious. Really, I'm like a sneezing frog in a bell jar with a cotton ball soaked in ether and High Karate. And here comes the grilled meat smell, too. You know what would really complete this bouquet? Gun metal and bourbon.

Last weekend, we got free tickets to the opening ballet gala! The highlight, for me, was Balanchine/Bizet Symphony in C. How can you beat an army of ballerinas, frosted and frisking like whitecaps before an ocean-blue scrim? Then, at the final cadence, someone's cell phone went off right behind my head. But it turns out that the T-mobile ring is in C major, so it wasn't so bad.

A Few of My Favorite Things

This is the spot on my morning walk that I like to pretend is Paris.


And this is about my favorite feature of the entire city, nay, the Pacific Northwest. This little storm cloud is posited on the rickety roller coaster in the Fun Forest. I think the swoopy appendages are supposed to be coming from its mouth, which used to be more obviously shaped like an "o" but the sun has faded him so his mouth looks like a cute little frown. The W is for Windstorm, and this little fellow means business! Take him seriously!

Something that I love/hate about the interweb is that the ads so often look so cheap. Back when the net was new and there was nothing on it, I expectated that everything would soon look super high-tech and modern. But most of the banners I see are wonderfully hokey, like homemade furniture store commercials where they use unbeautiful Cocteau-esue devices to make amateur spokesmodels disappear as if by magic. Anyway, the ads I find to be the most Blade Runnery are the little videos of girls in tarty dresses reclining on couches. They laugh, they look amazed at something being said, they give a knowing look, and then it freezes for a second and plays again. There might be sound, but I've never seen it with headphones, so the ladies just go through their silent spasms of counterfeit zeal while I read my email.

Join me, monkey bretheren

Well, here it is. The last, lousy moments of labor, when I've given up crossword puzzles, even, and am glazedly fixed on Bejeweled. If the phone rings, will I know what to say? Oh, but the phone does ring, and it's always some crazy soul who wants to know about companies and pay rates and complexities beyond my ken. He/she might as well ask me to recite the periodic table of elements, such a runny slop is my brain at 4:15. Sometimes I beat myself up for bringing music to study and then not even glancing at it, but then I recall what miseries I put myself through back when I did study at work. It's too much. It causes me fits of angst and ennui. And anyway, they're paying me to sit here and just be cheerful, so I reckon that's what I should do.

http://get.games.yahoo.com/proddesc?gamekey=bejeweled2

Emily's 6 Steps to The Successful Execution of a Pop Song

1. Open the song with a crooney, kind of sickly tone that is more or less devoid of emotion, as if you were humming to yourself while doing the dishes or mumbling incoherently in your cell. Introduce the A section (or the first repetition of the only section) this way.

2. Next, start to whine a little, like you have some sense of foreboding or intestinal discomfort. Bring in some pedal tones or something. Crescendo final phrase.

3. Now, belt it out like the devil goosed you with his pitchfork and is now a-chasin' after you.

4. BRIDGE!!! (Just go through a previous chord progression on a rip roaring electric guitar.)

5. Mellow out a little. This is the time when it should sound super emotional, like you're in complete awe of the wrenchingness of the feelings you're feeling, but also incorporate the element of anguish/gas.

6. Finally if you're able, reiterate the last little phrase up an octave in falsetto.

I've got a wooden bracelet on today, and I'm doing that thing where you switch wrists whenever you complain about something. I think it's a good idea, especially with a pretty bracelet instead of one of those stupid purple ones, which are kind of demonstrative; I think the best part of the idea is that it's a completely private endeavor- so much the better if nobody even knows you're doing it! So I'm blogging about it instead.

This week, I am learning a very cute pop song for my cousin's wedding. As I gulp and mew in poptastic convulsion, it occurs to me that this is the moral equivalent of cramming myself into a bridesmaid gown for my dear cousin- a great looking proverbial gown, but it's moss green and a bit roomy in the bust. The question is whether or not I can get the right shade of eyeshadow and stuff sufficiently. (That was not a complaint; the bracelet stays put!)

Here is a picture of the cool looking brick pavement that lies beneath the blacktop on Fifth Avenue. Isn't it romantic? I've been googling to try and find out how old it could be, but found nothing conclusive. I think it must be about a hundred years old though. Oh how much strife must be embedded in these pretty bricks.

Something I try to keep in mind when weirdos come to register as temps: how would it be if Vincent van Gogh or Glenn Gould walked in? Gould would probably mutter during the typing test and van Gogh would definitely ask me what to put on his W-4. Erik Satie would be hilariously raunchy and would maybe draw little pictures on his application. I'll bet Sylvia Plath would be disturbed by the smell of freshly grilled meat, which often wafts up to our testing room from some unidentified bar and grill. Maria Callas would probably take offense at being timed for the tests. And I'll bet not one of them would be able to email a resume in a regular old Word document.

Throw me the idol, and I'll throw you the whip

The little strip of beach in West Seattle was sunny yesterday, if a little cold, and the pasty Seattlites were out in numbers. I was in jeans and long sleeves, but most of the people were stretched out in swimsuits, prostrate before the humble September sun as if it were the true, leonine July presence, which evidently never got here. My highlight was a little girl who appeared to be holding her family at bay with a piece of bull kelp. She lashed it about her, laughing, and her sister and parents laughed too, but I think I saw a gleam of real confidence in her eyes, uneasiness in theirs. Maybe I imagined it.

A moment of reflection on the coolest beings I know (in a superficial sense): the bike messengers. They wear cool pants and weird hats. Sometimes they sport odd, socklike accessories on their arms or legs. They are covered with tatoos and probably scars. Some people say that they smell terrible, and that this is a point of pride, but I've never noticed it. They assemble by the coffee kiosk at the foot of my building, and this morning one of them asked me if I had cut my hair. One of the cool people noticed me! ME!

-Nick, you are about to see a horrible, horrible thing.
-What's that Murray?
-People going to work.


So it goes. Time to wake up and smell the busses and the baked goods. My morning walk is a welcome change, however. I go through Seattle Center, where dawn breaks over the shiny Frank Gehry building and shines down on the bums digging through the garbage in the Fun Forest. I sail past the tempting cafes and luscious Top Pot donuts. Then suddenly there are a bunch of us hoofing it toward the center, getting ready to do whatever it is that we have to do all day. I'm trying not to overthink it.

There is a giant blackberry bramble by the sidewalk near our apartment, and the harvest has just gone beyond its peak. (It has a rather long incline and a considerable decline, so that doesn't mean the time of blackberries is anywhere near over.) The other day, I saw three people gathering there, which was cute. I harvested enough for an enormous rustic pie last week. I think it's great to have this one communistic thing out there, and it makes me wish there were more fruit trees laden for public consumption. The city probably doesn't create urban orchards because of the fleshy/pitty/birdy mess that they would create, which would at least be a more beautiful mess than the generalized litter and grime of humanity.

In Heaven, There Is No Beer

Back in Seattle, in the rain that is not heavy and warm, but steady, light and cold. The last, stumpy leg of our strange journey was spent in a hotel in Heredia that was designed to look like a Swiss village. It was cozy once we got a fire going- I managed to fill the room with smoke a few times, which ladled on some rustic flavor. On our last night, the staff fled at 5:30, leaving us foodless in the middle of nowhere, so there was kind of a fun jaunt in a taxi down to some BLT sandwiches and one last glob of delicious flavored mayonnaise.

So now I am treating myself to some artistic refreshment via a baroque opera workshop. It's great; a kind of summer camp for nerdy grown-ups.

Pura Vida / Aqua Vita

Not much to report about Costa Rica, I'm very sorry to say. New sensations have included entry into the Italian restaurant and discovery of the junk food smorgasbord by the pool. I got some swim goggles, for to plunder the depths of the pool, but alas. I found nary a hairpin. I did find a band-aid and a piece of seaweed with a hair in it. Still, goggles are a good time. Mine got all weird and plastic-wrinkly when I got them wet, so I could only really see out of the sides. So everything- ocean floor, pool and band-aid- looked kind of like one of those old Man Ray experimental films.

So now I'd like to address the fascinating array of whiskey names that are meant to evoke the past. I give you: Early Times, Ancient Age, Old Grand-Dad, Old Potrero, Old Overholt, Old Oak, Old Rip Van Winkle, Old Pogue, Old Kentucky, Old Crow, and Very Old Barton, for a modest start. Whiskey is OLD! So old.

Fantasy is in the Minds of Those who are not Afraid to Dream

There is a wonderful floor show at this resort. Night before last, we saw the "Boogie Woogie Show," which consisted of five men and two women in afro wigs, dancing not to The Andrews Sisters, but disco. They all had great bodies and a bit of training, I think, but the choreography was charmingly high schooly, for lack of a better word. One of the girls was pregnant- still smokin hot, mind you- and the guys were flaming. My favorite parts were At the Carwash and The Village People montage, which tickled me to the center of my soul. I could not resist a peek at the Fantasy (Fantasy is in the Minds of Those who are not Afraid to Dream) Show, hoping that it would be the same choreography in angel wings. Not too far off! It was a fantasy under the sea, complete with a Little Mermaid reenactment and the coolest jellyfish costumes ever. They had these umbrella-looking things on their heads and curlity chiffon hanging all over- really neat. Then there was an awesome lobster woman. I was reminded of the costumes that my mom came up with for the old Grayland dance revues. Marvelous. Sadly, I will have to miss the White Party Show, because members of my own white party finally scored some restaurant reservations. That's nice, because the novelty of the buffet is finally starting to wear off.

In other news, I think that "(Don't Wanna Be) All By Myself" is the song I've heard more than any other since arriving here.

A few little details I wanted to mention: This place is exactly like a posh retirement community. Golf carts and trucks constantly pass, toting people who don't want to walk the winding walkway to the pool or whatever, or maybe they are just tired of going in circles because every building is identical. The pool is absolutely colossal; boasted to be "easily the largest swiming pool in Central America." You can walk straight out to the beach from there, and find a crowd of tents with wares and pedicures for sale. The actual beach is wonderful, because it is made of shells. Tiny pieces of worn shells, beautiful to see and soft to walk on. Finally, the continuous and necessary presence of this yellow wristband really makes me feel as if I'm being lulled into complacency with all this food and blandness because someone is going to harvest my organs or something. Sure hope not.

Here I am at Reserva Conchal, Tamarindo- a big ol´ all inclusive resort. Yesterday, they slapped these wrist bands on us, which means we can have everything- except internet cafe, dammit- for free. Last night at the lush buffet, I felt exactly like a twelve year old, confronted for the first time with an endless supply of rich foods and freezy treats. There was a marimba trio in the background at dinner, and I felt like Donald Duck in a bee costume, flitting from spread to elaborate spread, tasting of as many delights as possible. I don´t know how else to describe it. There is also a swim-up bar in the sprawling pool. I ordered a virgin piña colada and floated around like Baloo. Hey, it´s a cartoony kind of place. Not the kind of vacation I would ever plan for myself, but here we are.

Right now, it´s raining and I´m listening to American power ballads.

Tamarindo is a great big freeway, put 55211.87 down and buy a car...

Back in the enormous Heredia resort. The lobby of this place is ornate, but in the rest, there is a lot of empty space. There have been a couple of weddings in as many days, which is kind of a relief; it makes it a bit less like the resort in The Shining...unless of course I am hallucinating. It's possible. I'm pretty sure the bonny wee bairn is teething; in any case, I am spent from all her incurable angst. If we get snowed in, please say you knew me when.

Speaking of baby Hannah, we took a walk in downtown San Jose while the others practiced in El Teatro Nacional. It reminded me of the ramblas in Barcelona, only without the money. It was a shortish walk, but enough to get a charge of teeming energy. There were people trying to foist pigeon food into my hand (no, Betsy, I did not expose the baby to avian flu for the sake of my own coarse enjoyment!), open-front shops and, so tragically, young women in beautiful traditional rural dresses, begging with coffee cups. It was nice for me to be able to walk through this city with a baby, because the people were kinder in general and the many gaggles of loafing men were respectful. Plus, Hannah never, ever cries when she's out on a stimulating walk- valuable lesson there.

Dramamine Queens at the Hostile Hostel

This morning, we departed Tamarindo at the crack of dawn with one very sick soprano (not me) and a queasy lutenist. We spent most of yesterday on a catamaran, which was fun and taxing. There were a number of crooners, honeymooners and intoxicated baby boomers on board. We were treated to a lot of reggae and either John Mayer or Jack Johnson (I can´t tell the difference. Bead/leather choker music.) We all got out and snorkelled, looking dead in the water but with attentive minds. It was murky, but we could see some pretty striped fish and some bright, darting blues. My favorite part was floating in the shallow water near the beach. The ocean swell would fuzz the sand pattern out of focus, then pull it back in again. On the way back, Nell and I feasted on dramamine, which was so soporific that I dozed off in the punishing afternoon sun.

Anyway, it´s good that we are out of Tamarindo. It seems that our hoteliere grew more and more exasperated with out presence as time wore on, as it required her to put the leftover food inside of tortillas for our consumption, and to place the same pieces of chocolate cake on the table for us day after day. (Aside: when we arrived, she explained that a B&B is ¨more casual,¨ which turned out to mean more casual for the owners and more difficult for us.)

Last night, Hannah was all weepy and the concert was here in the tile-covered hotel, so I spirited her into the entertaining tardes. We strolled past groups of construction workers getting off work, waiting for the bus. Ticos are so friendly. They always smile and say hello. Then you walk by some American expats/tourists, who look right through you with tense, striving faces. I guess colonialism has always been economically derived, but I think there's also an element of purchased authenticity at work. We all want to have something real happen to us, but even more than that, we want other people to know how well we are fitting in, how the sunset effects us more profoundly than most, and that we are the only ones who understand the lives of the locals. I can identify, I guess, because I've spent a lot of my travel times feeling melancholy and alien, wishing that I had some grasp on a place behind the doors of the regular houses. But that's tourism. When you live in a place, you earn it. You know which plants would be considered weeds, for example. It's better to smile like a dummy and accept your role of interloper.

Back at the casa, listening to the owner and staff prepare for the concert/cocktail party over the strains of "Every Time You Go Away (You Take a Piece of Me with You)." There is a crashity exciting ocean out there, but I just don't think I should subject my dainty hide to any more exposure for now. Well maybe, if the tide is high. This morning I managed to get myself raked over some jagged rocks, but it was just a matter of time.

Tamarindo. A spent town. A wreck of human outpost that is the logical end result. I mean yikes. There is one restaurant in town that serves somewhat local cuisine. The main drag has a sort of haze over it, like a sea anemone in a hands-on aquarium, touched so many times that it never reacts to anything.

There are schedules to be maintained...even in Costa Rica.

Banished from paradise and plunged into the heart of jaded tourism, lizardy expats and surf lessons. EVERYTHING IS IN ENGLISH. Creepy. So now we're staying at a bed and breakfast, which means that our schedule is dependant on the schedule of our eerie hosts (eleven years in Tamarindo and she doesn't speak Spanish?). I have been spoiled by Villa Caletas. But I must confess that it is most refreshing to be galloping over the uneven streets of clay on a trashed fixed-gear bicycle. This feels like the kind of used up town that could easily be the setting of a terrible tourist knifing... in fact, there was some kid on the balcony of this very internet cafe, showing off the machete he just bought to some sun damaged girls. His eyes danced with violent glee.

The water of the warm Pacific washes over tortuously pocked lava rock, leaving little pools in the hot sun when the tide goes out. These pockets are coated with nerite snail eggs, which look and feel exactly like sesame seeds glued to the inside of a bowl. The nerites, when they hatch, fill each rocky crevass. The surfaces of dry rock are encrusted with the miniscule bodies of dead(?) nerites, which didn´t make it to the dank cracks in time, and they make a sickening crunch underfoot once you notice what they are. Nerites live up to a year. When they die, hermit crabs of all ages (up to a certain point, of course) occupy their abandoned shells.

I have discovered that Hannah, the baby whom I occassionally tend in exchange for all this undeserved luxury, is not only a sweet-natured child, but is also my ticket to popularity among the Costa Ricans. They just LOVE babies! So I´ve been able to practice my Spanish with more frequency when I have one strapped to me.

Costa Rica 3

I have some bad news. Bahoo has passed away. All the cute animals still look like her, though, and she remains a prototype for the small, the sweet, the button-eyed creatures. She had really soft, floopity paws and an intense little green gaze. She was silver and gold, and she will be missed from this world.

In other news, we went to the beach today. There were so many little hermit crabs that it looked like an exodus of pebbles in some places. There were lots of regular type, sideways-walking crabs too, and many big pelicans fishing in the surf. I swam as much as I could without getting a sunburn. It rains every afternoon, so the surgeon general recommended window of time is not a possibility; it´s high noon or nothing. The ocean felt like a bath...with rocks at the bottom. I could only imagine how many tiny beings had to flee in the wake of my big mammal body. The animals here have to be so on top of things. The flies hover with alarming precision. The birds and insects all seem so fleet and accurate. They are well evolved, I guess, because the living (heat, water) is so easy here that competition must be brutal.

The rain is a wonderful thing. The basin of jungle fills up with mist as the storm advances. Sometimes it´s like a solid wall of fog, and then the outlines of trees will appear far away like tracings against the white, and then the haze will shift and swallow it up again.

Hola Costa Rica, Part 2

Here I sit, high on a hill overlooking lush jungle as it tumbles down to the Pacific. Actually, we´re by the big inlet on the west coast, and the horizon shockingly resembles the Seattle harbor. But no, I´m in the most ritzy resort hotel I could have imagined. A place I could not afford if I saved money for years. It is beautiful and soft, but affords me no access whatever to a Costa Rican not wearing a uniform. I hope that tomorrow I can climb down the hill somehow and feast in a roadside shack.

As for tonight, I feasted most notably on passionfruit sorbet with seeds in it. A flavor explosion! Most of the food on offer is either American or French. (Get this- in both hotels so far, there is a French expatriate named Vincent: one the head waiter and one the lead chef. The first Vincent reported that he was on a surfing trip two years ago, fell in love with a Costa Rican and now is married with two hijos.)

So...not exactly Night of the Iguana, as I had hoped, but this is just the start.

My Costa Rican Adventure, Part 1

I woke up from a shattered nap on the airplane because dawn was breaking onto the Texas plane like a lava flow. There were flat and broken clouds hovering beneath us, and it looked like orange fire was seeping through the cracks in them. It was easy to imagine that I was looking down at the time before the dinosaurs, like in Fantasia.

Then later, I was riding fast through the streets of a strange new city! Colors and dispositions flew by. (It was like the time that my friends and I had maybe an hour to hang out in the Chicago Art Institute. Rather than focus on a few things, we opted to dash through as much as possible and let the works penetrate us as much as they could in a glance. That remains one of the most stimulating hours of my life.) ....But here was beautiful Costa Rica. I saw pastry shops and school children, dogs, and a goat. I read the Spanish signs and realized with glee that I still remembered how to order a cheap beer. Unfortunately, all of that is back there, while I am here in a sleepy resort hotel. It´s been raining cats and dogs since we arrived, but at least this is definitely a great place for some unshattered sleeping.

HISMSV Part 5

The other night, I rented and watched High School Musical, which was filmed in my very own alma mater. For the record, we are not Wildcats. We are Leopards. Anyway, the story unfolds as a wholesome jock and a bookworm collide in their mutual love of singing. They are untrained, they say. Both of these teens are so unbelievably alpha that they must have been created in a laboratory by the Disney scientists (this "laboratory origin" theory seems to be gaining popularity with me...) But really, it was pretty cute, even if the songs were mostly terrible, and I enjoyed seeing them dance around on the auditorium stage where I once blasted Green Day and set the stage lights to chase for the benefit of my fellow second period stage crew buddies. (I wonder what ever happened to those guys. If only we all could have stayed together through the years. How would it be if my stage crew class had bought a house together? We could have fixed it up with gaff tape and dutchman, hurling insults at one another all the while...)

So tonight we set off for sunny Costa Rica, where I hope it will be warmer than effing Seattle.

HISMSV Part 4

Some generous and fancy friends came to Seattle, so there's been some lovely, rich food lately. There was also a parade on the other night, and we all found ourselves caught in the festering crowd that lined the streets. Something weird and charming about this place is that it's a fairly big city, but we are not a classy looking bunch of people. Even the rich people look pretty slouchy when it comes to clothes, and then you have the rest of us: strictly sweatshirts and jeans. We look like small town people, even though we're in this quasi-glamorous harbor town. Anyway, at least it's a classy smelling city. True, no roasting nuts like in New York, but we do have sophisticated espresso smells, perfume cannons tumbling like feathers out of the clothing stores, and the aroma of street filth, which is oddly necessary.

I haven't done much since my return, other than rehearse for the small chapel concert (Claustrophilia!) in September. It's gonna be off the hook.

HISMSV Part 3

I went off the middlemost high dive yesterday. Blind plummet this time, and a brazen but kind-hearted little girl with freckles and a two-piece. Mostly I hung out in the steam room and swam long, slow laps in the pristine outdoor pool with my shadow sliding along beneath me. I can open my eyes a little out there on account of it’s so clean; inside, the water is a human-chemical slurry, but the features are still more fun.

A friend of mine has compiled an enormous mix of songs that seem to have come from everywhere and nowhere- risen spontaneously from the stew of human mediocrity. Wilson Philips, for example, tapped into the teeming Oversoul and gave voice to “Hold On For One More Day,” and now we have it forever as part of our concrete collective knowledge. But the songs, though terrible, have an intoxicating quality. I don’t know if it’s because they’re so familiar or maybe because they were created in a laboratory by music scientists. So there’s been a lot of dancing in a circle with bare feet like the good old Junior High days. Still, I think I need a little Mahler immersion to scrub some of the bubblegum off my brain.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation, Part 2

This time of year, I have to wonder about people’s feet. The footwear of midsummer tends to be flat and unsupportive; we all wear sandals or flip-flops, and I wonder how many arches are aching and how many secret red spots reside in the raw and sockless places under those beaded metallic sidewalk slappers. This is the sun-bloated, mediterranean time and the livin’ is easy. I wonder if our bodies are like bags of sun, filled to brimming in midsummer and slowly draining out in the cold months. People say, in favor of Seattle, that the sunless damp makes it easier to work, and I guess that’s true. Harder to want to live, easier to work. I am having a great time singing, but a hard time learning music. My discipline is shot, but the feeling in my head rings heavenly. Why must there be choices in life? I think it would be great if we all had government issued shoes. Maybe even pinafores and trousers made of astoundingly durable cloth. Hats in summer. The colors would coordinate well and people tend to look elegant in uniforms.

I get to go back to the Kearns swimming complex tomorrow, and I wish I were there already. Last time, I jumped off the lowest of the high dive platforms. My friends went off the higher levels, but I think I was most daring, because most afraid. There were some kids up there, waiting with me for the flag to signal our turn. Kids know how to do that stuff. A little boy said: just don’t look down when you jump, so I didn’t. I looked down as I jumped, and the blue was hurtling at me, dramatic and pleasing. The other thing about strange kids is you can’t balk in front of them. You have to pretend that you are cool and jump off like it’s nothing.

How I Spent My Summer Vacation, Part 1

Summers generally end up the same way for me, year after year. Shoes on the porch (too wet for inside), alarming mosquito welts all over my arms and legs and also superficial wounds inflicted by plants, very light hair, millions of freckles and the same skirt every day. There’s another thing: every summer, wasps attempt to colonize the barbecue grill (which we call “The Groyl,” since it was built by my father, Roy). Usually my first barbecution occurs earlier in the season, so it’s a matter of plucking the little nest off, observing the pulsating life forms therein (deeply thrilling to observe) and hucking it far away into the backyard. This year there was no groyling until today, which is the fourth of July, and I am an American, dammit, and desired a smoky dog. But the nest had the time to grow bigger this year, with as many as six or seven adults nursing the wee ones. It was obviously a family in a house. I felt terrible, but understood profoundly that we were natural enemies, somehow. So I incapacitated them with Pam cooking spray and annihilated them with a blowtorch. Were I a hopeless cynic, I might think this to be a strangely appropriate way of celebrating the Fourth.

Well, summer would not come to me, so I had to stride into summer. Seriously, the poor, misguided Seattites call this month "Junuary," which followed "Mayvember." Sick. Anyway, Kim and I got a late start, but powered through and rolled in at four in the morning, blasting Avenue Q and wasted on gas station coffee and Taco Bell food. The drive was great fun for a long time, but then not, and then it felt so undescribably good to not be moving anymore. Summer has exploded here in the last few days, I'm told. The roses in the front yard are like an ocean of flowers.

The harbor looks like a smooth, gray expanse; an impenetrable gelatin with creatures and mystery suspended throughout. Probably a lot of old rusty garbage, too. Ever since I was a child, I have fantasized about being able to go, breathe and see the interior of the cold cold harbor. Despite their corniness, I like anything to do with mermaids, because they are mythically capable of this.

On Music and Emily's Dowager Fantasy

I'm temping at a place with a magnificent view of the watery grey harbor, industry and a cruise ship that is boarding because today is Friday. The ship fills me with the desire to make my fortune and cover myself in enough glory to someday be aboard some kind of ship, surrounded by admiring young men. Of course, the young men will be eyeing the young maidens, and I think I would like it if they could profit by their association with me to impress the girls. Heh.

I think that music is like the life force- not the feat of the individual. Just as each person is part of life- an expression of nature, rather than a separate thing- music happens through us. Not as a posession that we have to hold or to give, but like the water in our bodies or the air we breathe- communal stuff that exists without judgement. We practice in order to clear a path for the music to come through our bodies, to make the listener aware only of the music and not the vessel of transmission.

I'm temping at my old job...at the temp agency. Is that like a double negative? It's nice to be here again, although I'm at their other office today. They don't brew coffee here! What a shock that was. Last night was particularly tormentful, as I was up late feeling sorry for myself because I didn't get some summer school scholarship. (Oh wah, I'm too old for summer school, and it will never make up for the absence of Band Camp from my life anyway, try as it might.) So here I was at the crack of dawn, sans caffeine. I thought it didn't matter that much, and that I'd be fine and perhaps mellow, but I was appallingly foggy. At last, my boss showed up and, seeing the dull luster of my eyes, mentioned that there's tea. Tea! With my whole being wrapped around a strong little cup, I revelled in it's bitterness and imagined myself with fireman's blanket around my shoulders, having just been rescued.

Once in awhile, I get that email warning me about people who might approach me in a parking lot and try to get me to smell some perfume, which will in actuality be ether, at which point I will swoon into the arms of the miscreants, who will relieve me of my worldly goods. I hope that the story is false, and that this hasn't happened to anyone, but isn't there something a bit charming about the method? I mean... ether? Sounds pleasingly old-timey to me. I think it even qualifies as a caper.

Speaking of old-timey things, I went to a bar last night (Vessel, which otherwise resembled a 1980s coke mansion) where they serve a number of drinks from antique recipes, of which I highly approve. Offerings include several 19th-century concoctions such as Pimm's Cup and Morning Glory (avec absinthe!). Modern tastes aside, I think there is something intrinsically valuable about tasting something from the past. But if a stranger creeps up on you and insists that you sniff a little Shalimar or Chanel No. 5, don't do it! Unless, of course, she's a diamond-encrusted dowager.

The Techie and the Artist Should be Friends or Emily's Rodney Dangerfield Corner

A week in the den of rich young engineers. Believe me, only Seattle makes them just so. You may scoff, California, but deprive your nerds of sunlight and jack them up on coffee (fair trade organic, ground individually for each cup) and see how things go. Most of them are really nice, to be fair, but then this one guy had to lurk about me through my break and destroy any happiness I may have gained from getting a twix bar for only 10 cents. He began by prying from me the name of my chosen profession, and then, as do many people, he busted my chops about it. How do I make that work? What gives me the right to exist unless I become a famous opera star? That's not a profession, that's a hobby. The usual snidities inflicted by people in your more button-down lines of work.

I have a great deal of respect for the disciplines of science and engineering, and even for working stiffs who suffer crushing ennui for the sake of security. But it galls me when techies and insurance salesmen get up in my face about being a musician. I wouldn't dream of grilling some stranger about how he pays his bills, but people seem to feel at liberty to ask me really personal questions like that, and then treat me like some dilletante who contributes nothing to society. Do the squares really think that artists are parasites? Do they believe that security tags are more essential to human life than music? For my part, the only things that keep me rooting for Team Homo Sapiens Sapiens are our creative endeavors. I admire our intentional creation of beauty. So that's the thing I want to do in my life, and it's not my fault that I was borne into a world that makes you bleed for it.

I Bend Unto Myself Today

...So misread one of the little old choir gals in church yesterday morning (the real title being: "I Bind Unto Myself Today"). This gave me a smile, since I had been up for some of the night calling the dinosaurs on my big porcelain telephone on account of maybe a bad quail egg in an expensive gala meal. Sorry for the overshare, I just thought that was really funny.

So I have this amazing idea. My friend, Megan, and I are putting a show together for next season, and we want to make it interesting. Wipe that smirk off your face. So the concert will be based on, and titled, Life. In four seasons. The amazing idea is to form a baroque still life onstage as the concert progresses. For the spring part, we'll set flowers, summer will bring fruit, autumn a clock and some oak branches, winter a skull (fake) and a candle (real). And all of those things are memento mori! Reminders of the transient nature of life....

On Ambition and Gardening

How many seeds and starts have mom and I bought? How many did we plant in the ground? How many grew into carrots or came to flower? (When we first started the garden, we were into vegetables, but the flowers have slowly taken over. I think this year we’ll put in some gourdy things to climb the fence, but they will be for decoration.) I planted some seeds this week, and found it a bit too zen to leave them behind. Will I see them as seedlings? Will mom thin them and protect them from the rapacious snails? I think that gardening is a wholesome way of marking time, like a haircut. My mom’s garden is an extraordinary balm for mental health; it puts things in perspective. I can weed for days with great purpose, but after awhile my mind relaxes and I accept the will of the plants. They migrate about in strange ways and are seldom where we left them. They tend to head for the edge of the sidewalk because it’s warm there. I almost want to dig them up and drag them back to center like naughty children, but I don’t. Let them seek their heat and lash the ankles of the mail carrier.

What a hormone-sodden wasteland is this middle time between youthful potential and what I hope will be circumspect old age. Everybody is racing to yoga class with their babies and their disposable coffeecups, believing that it all means something more than it has ever meant to anyone. How long does this silliness last? Must we all be swept in its wake? Is there any humor or grace at this stage?

Here's what I think: kids are the coolest ones among us. Especially the most clueless of the tweens; the late bloomers. The ones who have no desire or capability of dating, but who have the energy to shriek in public, and the focus not to realize that they are doing so. I know that these people are likely to be self-conscious and miserable (I can only speak from my own experience, of course), yet they have untold stores of potential and scads of malleability . They have not yet gained enough experience to believe that they can control their environs. Life just rolls over them and they live out each day like a fencing match. Which brings me to more spite toward my own kind. When you get to be my age, you start to believe that you have control over things and that you can create future happiness for yourself. So you go for it! You run yourself ragged and get to the front of the line! Then you get old anyway and maybe realize that you were an annoying dunderhead who never considered the damn lilies.