tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-78234175558818777022024-03-12T20:14:39.011-07:00macaronimaniacThink of it as sit-down comedy.
Because doing stand-up makes my feet hurt.Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.comBlogger147125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-49416652858304341142011-09-25T11:52:00.000-07:002011-09-25T14:50:10.880-07:00RelaxativesOverheard frequently in our household:<div><br /></div><div>Cheez: <i>Calm it down, Macaroni</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Me: <i>Not my strong suit, Cheez</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>I do not relax well. I can hike four miles each way to get to a beach, but I can't spend more than four minutes just lying down on the beach. Consider me the Prius of personality types. I'm not so much about the idling, more about the recharging.</div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNMAjvO6cQXmsHZB7uMp4iCNyHi0_pCdnGJI7EUirHAniOohin0cPkIf4xuao0LcAItn2gu8TLJMA51P4w_WIsdRxtw5471E5djnEddRpTw0SUBDUgDd_lwcVw5iCUgyGwYn_tIN3GzEE9/s400/original.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656374268714411602" /><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><b>Now that is what I call a hybrid</b></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So while some people think weekends are for reposing, I think they are for imposing. </div><div><br /></div><div>Imposing as many activities as I can onto the Mac and Cheez schedule (pronounce it <i>shed-ule</i>, it helps persuade the Canadian).</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, I can pack more into <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0285331/">24 hours than Kiefer Sutherland</a>. And I do it without the use of split-screen. </div><div><br /></div><div>Submitted for your consideration: Friday, September 23rd-Saturday, September 24th:</div><div><br /></div><div>First, Mac and Cheez bike up a volcano. </div><div><br /></div><div>Not for any of the usual reasons one bikes up a volcano. </div><div><br /></div><div>We bike up to attend what is billed as </div><div><i>A Quebecois House Dance and Party--Come and dance French-Canadian<br />quadrilles, squares, the Lancers, and other participatory dances at a<br />traditional Quebecois house party called by Seattle's Suzanne Girardot. These dances are similar to American square dances, but they have their own unique Quebecois style and interesting twist to the dance. Please bring potluck snacks and drinks to share. The dance is free, but tips are happily accepted.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>We do not know a damn thing about Quebecois music, nor do we know the host of the house party. But I do know that dragging Cheez onto a dance floor to dance dances neither of know is exactly my idea of a good time. </div><div><br /></div><div>Plus also we do sorta know the fiddler player, a nice Jewish girl from nowhere near Quebec who is so amazing at Quebecois fiddling that (according to my friend Mr. Internet) she played in <a href="http://www.ornsteincompton.com/bio.html">Quebec's internationally renowned traditional supergroup La Bottine Souriante</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>So we dance. We bike home (without peddling--a distinct advantage of living at the bottom of a volcano). We sleep. Mostly Cheez sleeps. I'm a macaroninsomniac, so I get up early, write for a while, and then waylay Cheez as he is about to start shaving so we can try playing <i>Jolene</i> as an accordion-banjo duet. </div><div><br /></div><div>Why, you may be wondering, would I waylay Cheez as he is about to start shaving so we can try playing <i>Jolene</i> as an accordion-banjo duet? </div><div><br /></div><div>Because <i>Jolene</i> has only three chords. Whereas <i>Here You Come Again</i> has damn near to a dozen. Which makes <i>Jolene</i> a much better place for us to start, in our quest to form <i>Parton Me</i>, the world's greatest banjo-accodion Dolly Parton cover band (as I hope my friend Mr. Internet will one day proclaim us to be).</div><div><br /></div><div>Then we go to a house party to hear a band. </div><div><br /></div><div>This time, there is no fiddler. But we do know the lead singer. She works with our backyard neighbor, who is hosting the party. So instead of biking up a volcano, we stroll through the gate between our yards. Which is about as arduous as volcano biking, given that it involves walking through enough spider webs to take down Peter Parker, Miss Muffet, and Wilbur the Pig.</div><div><br /></div><div>The neighbor and the singer and most of the guests all work "in social justice." So it's the kind of house party that starts at 11 am and involves a potluck wherein items have labels such as <i>Gluten Free Waffles (contains eggs--s</i>☹rry <i>vegans)</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>We eat. We groove to the band. We're back home by 2 pm. </div><div><br /></div><div>Just in time for a craft project. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because after a summer of staring at the bare-bulb-and-ceiling-fan in our bedroom, wondering if there is anyway to make a ceiling fan not the most aesthetically awful thing imaginable, we come up with . . . </div><div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKo38STakY7fUBoMGXPlyxUfkDJ4pCYWy1GMIRV60uWExkFGihJW0eNOFiMBOSerOSsrcXyvdjW_ZYCUQ4Npo5XauPPp7dOTdeus612MPyZr62UM3RvScbiuhtf-sf0LZ-6vF243XqoVsi/s1600/IMG_1739.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiKo38STakY7fUBoMGXPlyxUfkDJ4pCYWy1GMIRV60uWExkFGihJW0eNOFiMBOSerOSsrcXyvdjW_ZYCUQ4Npo5XauPPp7dOTdeus612MPyZr62UM3RvScbiuhtf-sf0LZ-6vF243XqoVsi/s320/IMG_1739.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656392749816279618" /></a></div><div>Furry lamp shade! We happen to have all the ingredients (wire, thread, fake fur) on hand, so we get Project Runwacko is wrapped up by 5 pm.</div><div><br /></div><div>Which leaves me just 7 more hours of Saturday to cram with activity.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>How about we, you know, RELAX? </i>Cheez pleads.</div><div><br /></div><div>Luckily, before I can even answer--and by answer I mean defeat any possible hope he has of getting me to sit still--<a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2010/01/shmaltz-across-texas-part-1.html">Little Lord Portleroy</a> phones to ask if we want to go see a band. Because his friend Paige's friend Nick is in town with his band, and Paige has a couple extra tickets if we want to go.</div><div><br /></div><div>Paige's friend Nick, it is worth mentioning, is <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Nick_Rhodes">Nick Rhodes</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>We barely have time to pick out our best 80s outfits (me: purple rose-patterned Betsey Johnson dress, houndstooth jacket and houndstooth stockings, purple cowboy boots; Cheez: basic black with white leather tie, and two-tone black and white Doc Martens), go to a dinner party, and then head to the Rose Garden for our sixth-row seats to the ultimate 80s flashback.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not that we can sit. Who can sit when Simon Le Bon is convincing me that despite having eaten my way through three parties in the past 20 hours, I am in fact <i>hungry like the wolf</i>? </div><div><br /></div><div>Paige doles out VIP passes, which means after the show we get to hangout backstage. </div><div><br /></div><div>Like Quebecois quadrilles, hanging out backstage with the prettiest band ever<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdUD8e1JRQe1M9K-cx4eaHb_Mi9Td2gqfZgznJGtSu2ZAbbuz9SHEdPNKXDhjNICesPtzFkE3VAj6SoUfJhESZKhfeXZ3rNP8mPK1S-Wxhy9xyGIhsVAGPHlcrCnHLNJ7_A0iCO5iZegh5/s1600/duranduran.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 148px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjdUD8e1JRQe1M9K-cx4eaHb_Mi9Td2gqfZgznJGtSu2ZAbbuz9SHEdPNKXDhjNICesPtzFkE3VAj6SoUfJhESZKhfeXZ3rNP8mPK1S-Wxhy9xyGIhsVAGPHlcrCnHLNJ7_A0iCO5iZegh5/s200/duranduran.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656413026496842274" /></a><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiptDsyydU0FAirIVb5jm-bncHZ37_AdBRgKQJ0YF8KqKXqMV5HwDtWImyTm5TCFGs3bOtlTxkKkbsOgGVifk8b92ZVP-qya-Nqo3-MAR5Fh8vwIJCnlwWTV7THfeMQvsBg-HfPi_CQoe3M/s1600/7_gogos.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 178px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiptDsyydU0FAirIVb5jm-bncHZ37_AdBRgKQJ0YF8KqKXqMV5HwDtWImyTm5TCFGs3bOtlTxkKkbsOgGVifk8b92ZVP-qya-Nqo3-MAR5Fh8vwIJCnlwWTV7THfeMQvsBg-HfPi_CQoe3M/s200/7_gogos.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5656413093260342626" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>(sorry, The Go-Gos . . . maybe if you'd worn as much makeup as Duran Duran, you could have been just as pretty) </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>is a new one for Mac and Cheez, but we rise to the occasion in true M&C form:</div><div><br /></div><div><ul><li>Nick tells me and Cheez and Sarah Dougher that we have cool glasses. </li><li>Cheez tells Nick Rhodes he's <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7z9nnyJr2Q">covered </a><i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7z9nnyJr2Q">Rio</a></i><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n7z9nnyJr2Q"> on the banjo</a>. </li><li>Nick and Cheez discuss how Roxy Music's <i>More Than This</i> rips off a riff from Neil Diamond's <i>Sweet Caroline</i>, while<i> </i>I scour the catering spread looking for chocolate (futilely, as it turns out; I begin to wonder if maybe The Go-Gos would have more girlcentric snacks).</li></ul></div><div>Yes, we party like it's only 12 years after 1999. </div><div><br /></div><div>Meaning, everyone who was cool in the 80s is now in their 40s, if not their 50s. By midnight, we've cleared the coliseum and are headed home.</div><div><br /></div><div>The highlight of the whole circadian cycle? Probably the point during <i>Wild Boys</i> at which Nick, Simon, etal. segued into a cover of Frankie Goes to Hollywood.</div><div><iframe width="560" height="315" src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/JJ0JbVZG6WQ" frameborder="0" allowfullscreen=""></iframe><br /></div><div>Turns out, I *can* RELAX. </div><div><br /></div><div>If <i>RELAX </i>involves a throbbing beat, a full synth-pop band, and dancing in the aisles. </div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-88935588194827302422011-06-22T06:20:00.000-07:002011-06-22T18:56:24.075-07:00It Takes Two (Wheels) to TangoPortland is a lot like <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=D2Hx_X84LC0">Camp Granada</a>: They say we'll have some fun if it stops raining.<br /><br />And this weekend, it/we did.<br /><br />We *could* have had our fun at <a href="http://www.byronbeck.com/home/854-loud-a-proud-pride-parade-a-waterfront-festival-2011.html">Portland's Pride Festival</a>. But that seemed a little mainstream.<br /><br />Bear in mind, the Cheez and I did live in <a href="http://www.gaywesthollywood.com/">West Hollywood</a> for six years.<br /><br />(and when I say "bear" I do mean this guy:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEbNFRU3lQZ4D0AerQ_tIxnNBMkY8YN6WpjHUAiB6XfinPOGpMEAR57_PnFdw1XG11Ofg4FcuO0O2wAnncNiDNTJKbH6-losnk98ybAFEOA_bWHYQBGBLuNYKyaaIbJORylXyLI738Dhs/s1600/Gay%252BBear.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 284px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgXEbNFRU3lQZ4D0AerQ_tIxnNBMkY8YN6WpjHUAiB6XfinPOGpMEAR57_PnFdw1XG11Ofg4FcuO0O2wAnncNiDNTJKbH6-losnk98ybAFEOA_bWHYQBGBLuNYKyaaIbJORylXyLI738Dhs/s400/Gay%252BBear.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621038854270872994" border="0" /></a><br /><br />No, wait, I mean *this* guy:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ9fusSp6dDcsLSCWYlM7F-C-qby0XsIJ7SUTS5MKx5Lb81g-OZWtbKlCwLlZGmO1irhr6cOKMyD2IbiGlu9aZsAenJikhrj9zKJ-UX4q0eZDOmgEDZajTOfymqZZKjzmbg8Yyb8IvR0Dg/s1600/200px-Gay-Bear-Mechanic-3603.0.html.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ9fusSp6dDcsLSCWYlM7F-C-qby0XsIJ7SUTS5MKx5Lb81g-OZWtbKlCwLlZGmO1irhr6cOKMyD2IbiGlu9aZsAenJikhrj9zKJ-UX4q0eZDOmgEDZajTOfymqZZKjzmbg8Yyb8IvR0Dg/s400/200px-Gay-Bear-Mechanic-3603.0.html.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5621038860604264754" border="0" /></a><br />)<br /><br />(note to self, where do you place the ")" to close a parenthetical statement that ends with a photo of a topless hairy gay dude? That's an issue they didn't cover in my high school copy of Funk & Wagnalls)<br /><br />So anyhow, instead Cheez and I did something utterly Portland: <a href="http://www.shift2bikes.org/cal/viewpp2011.php">Pedalpalooza</a>. Which, if you are too lazy/cautious/immobilized-by-your-mobile-device to click the link, is a two-week festival of biking events in and around Portland. This being Portland, "bike events" can mean things you never dreamed. Mostly soggy things.<br /><br />But not this:<br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/efKvQUhq65E" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="560"></iframe><br /><br />Yes, bike tango.<br /><br />The ride met up in Jamison Park, then we biked with tango music blaring (okay, maybe that's not such a big deal) and with portable ballroom dance floor (okay, definitely that is a big deal, albeit one disassembled and folded into neat stacks, then loaded onto a damn sturdy bike trailer) to the waterfront, assembled the floor, and Cheez and Macaroni got their first ever tango lesson.<br /><br />If you are looking for <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2009/09/spotted-at-performing-arts-festival.html">my usual bike</a> in that film, note that for Sunday at least the leopard had changed her spots, and Cheez and I were riding the tandem.<br /><br />Because when we left the house, he misheard and thought I'd said we were going on the <span style="font-weight: bold;">tandem ride</span>, not the <span style="font-weight: bold;">tango ride</span>.<br /><br />Of course, it takes two to tandem. And to tango. And in fact it took two tandems to tango ride, because another couple showed up on tandem for the same ride.<br /><br />This is, after all Portland. In any group of forty people, you will find at least 4 (aka two sets of) tandem riders.<br /><br />Reminds me of the Kinsey report statistic that 10% of the population is gay.<br /><br />Of course, that was only a general estimate.<br /><br />In West Hollywood, it was slightly higher, maybe 110%.<br /><br />In Portland, <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2008/01/lesbireffic-mommy-merch.html">the lesbian moms</a> also throw the statistic off in terms of 10% homo. But at 4 out of 40 we are certainly 10% bi squared, as in bi-seated bi-cycles.<br /><br />In other news, I also had a piece in the <a href="http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/06/18/the-other-major-anderson/"><span style="font-weight: bold;">New York Times</span></a> this weekend. Because, as usual, war profiteering is breaking news.<br /><br />Even if it's Civil War profiteering.<br /><br />But the real news that's fit to upload is in this tango video:<br /><iframe src="http://www.youtube.com/embed/cnFqFz89wQs" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="349" width="560"></iframe><br />Yes, catch the woman wearing red lacy peds.<br /><br />Sexy peds, people. Who knew?<br /><br />I can just imagine Allan Sherman commemorating it in song:<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You remember<br />little Stacey<br />She's sporting peds that<br />are red n lacy<br />on the dance floor<br />quite a sight<br />but now the dance floor's<br />loaded on her bike.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /></span>Fun when it stops raining indeed.Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-69394782969737978402011-06-01T22:15:00.000-07:002011-06-01T23:52:05.976-07:00True Facts About Making Stuff UpWhat, you may be wondering, is it like to be a published novelist?<br /><br />Damn good question. Answer: I don't know.<br /><br />My novel is due out in February, 2012. Which, though it seems like a long ways off for my adoring fans, in the world of publishing is actually quick turnaround. And means I hit the shelves just in time for all your Black History Month book buying needs.<br /><br />So I am not actually a published novelist. Yet.<br /><br />I am, however, a professional novelist. As in, I got a royalty check!<br /><br />From Sweden.<br /><br />Because, for reasons I don't quite understand, in addition to selling in North America and the UK, my novel has sold in Norway and Brazil.<br /><br />Yes, I am being translated. Or rather, my narrator/protagonist is being translated:<br />In the US:<span style="font-weight: bold;"> free woman of color<br /></span>In the UK:<span style="font-weight: bold;"> free woman of colour<br /></span>In the Denmark:<span style="font-weight: bold;"> free wøman øf cølør<br /></span>In the Portuguese-speaking Brazil:<span style="font-weight: bold;"> free wõman õf cõlõr<br /></span><br />(c'mon, if you celebrate the first two sales with a low-flo dual flush toilet, you might as well celebrate the next two with some recycling. <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2011/02/aflush-with-pride-with-news-of-pending.html">Of your jokes</a>)<br /><br />In the ridiculously long time since I last blogged, I have learned a few things about being a novelist. And because I am such a gifted teacher, I will share them with you now.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thing #1: Stalking has its upside.</span> About the most important thing you can do as a new novelist is to get a known novelist to read your book and possibly blurb it. This I have done. By happening upon a book signing by a known novelist and asking her, ever so casually, to read my manuscript. Which she agreed to do. Wasn't that easy? Yes! And I only had to travel <a href="http://www.harvard.com/">3,000 miles</a> to happen upon the signing!<br /><br />Because you know Portland doesn't have any bookstores of its own.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZLRnsdExgARjX_G0pfctt-L5xQJtLurzDHe1zzEq4np1-leXeLpofxBk3y_vgXQr3Xir0TaOZkOJaikxbSGKB4lEdOmeka0LXjILmoQSqvsUvGD3Qnk7ZsxbE9V6WaglrNmoMLTVrqIGT/s1600/IMG_0228.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 360px; height: 268px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZLRnsdExgARjX_G0pfctt-L5xQJtLurzDHe1zzEq4np1-leXeLpofxBk3y_vgXQr3Xir0TaOZkOJaikxbSGKB4lEdOmeka0LXjILmoQSqvsUvGD3Qnk7ZsxbE9V6WaglrNmoMLTVrqIGT/s400/IMG_0228.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613493930698086754" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br />Hmmmmm is recycling pictures somehow less lazy than recycling jokes?<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thing #2: Stalking, sure, that's okay. But let's not be insensitive.<br /></span>So when a famous author, or two, or as many as you can land, agree to read your book, it's nice to send a handwritten note thanking them. The only problem with that is my egregious handwriting. Not much point sending a deep token of appreciation in a completely illegible scrawl.<br /><br />Thus I carefully, painstakingly (as in pain of hand cramps), wrote out my notes. Had the Cheez read them over. Was about to pop note two in the envelope when I *happened* to glance at the back of the card, which had the credit for the image on the front of the card. A lovely abstract quilt. Called <span style="font-style: italic;">There goes the neighborhood</span>.<br /><br />Maybe not the best way to say, "hello, famous black writer, I am a nice white woman who I swear is celebrating African American culture!"<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Thing #3: Maybe it's not Maybelline.</span><br />Famous writer the third advised me <span style="font-style: italic;">Make sure you look really good in your author photo.</span> Which I thought I'd done, by asking a friend with advanced photoshop skills to take said photo. And then doctor it.<br /><br />Which he did quite well. But the doctor can only do so much given the patient. And this patient is impatient with make-up and product and the like.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Do I have to wear a lot of make-up and product when I do public appearances? </span>I asked Famous writer numero quatro (really it is amazing anyone has time to be a best-selling author, given how much time just answering macaronimaniacal queries can take). <span style="font-style: italic;">Are you kidding? </span>she answered. <span style="font-style: italic;">If you do TV, first of all they deal with all that and second of all WHO CARES because you are doing TV! Otherwise, three words: Joyce Carol Oates</span>.<br /><br />And it's true! Sure, I may not have over fifty published novels and an endowed professorship at Princeton, but damn if I don't have better eyewear and slightly less frizzy hair!<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ub_ghaXq_kLawY1qZzS8LgATDhEUvFhvB0Yzkg9WLJ5eLxXUmKfeGXvucKEmZYVIld68MPM0zEdtgigDr3U3HFQGarO2miVL4Co1GpFwmJcFUZsVd1pwjsljVdytheoei4uOrvCrZ72B/s1600/jco.jpg"><img style="float: left; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 208px; height: 283px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ub_ghaXq_kLawY1qZzS8LgATDhEUvFhvB0Yzkg9WLJ5eLxXUmKfeGXvucKEmZYVIld68MPM0zEdtgigDr3U3HFQGarO2miVL4Co1GpFwmJcFUZsVd1pwjsljVdytheoei4uOrvCrZ72B/s400/jco.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613503221914821362" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3RbTxyW86m_9Wh5Lg50xmRusHub7mqszpUYinQq-2jY3HNSYAqkd2zRXjxh07VNwMlsLSU8cz7A5hzmUjGAyECX9WCx3dODyN4tO1ktqDLYl_EeAGMseLhfDJbCZ3LX-iKJ7p3g_0kYpA/s1600/LoisHeadshotSmall.jpg"><img style="float: right; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; cursor: pointer; width: 290px; height: 232px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg3RbTxyW86m_9Wh5Lg50xmRusHub7mqszpUYinQq-2jY3HNSYAqkd2zRXjxh07VNwMlsLSU8cz7A5hzmUjGAyECX9WCx3dODyN4tO1ktqDLYl_EeAGMseLhfDJbCZ3LX-iKJ7p3g_0kYpA/s400/LoisHeadshotSmall.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5613503232973504082" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Thing #4: What's in a name? Everything. Starting with name recognition.</span><br />So Emily Let-Me-Just-Fold-That-Up-And-Hide-It-Where-No-One-Will-Find-It-Until-I-Am-Dead Dickinson not withstanding, most writers want to be read. And most readers want to read.<br /><br />Seems like a match made in marketing heaven.<br /><br />So I keep telling everyone I talk to about my book. Seriously, when I was standing on the admissions line at the Boston Museum of Fine Art behind a sweet college student who left her ID at home, causing me to bring her into the museum as the Plus-One on my museum pass, I told her and all her ID-remembering friends about my book. Which they seemed very excited to read. Except that it's harder to remember than an ID, on account of it doesn't yet have a name.<br /><br />Or rather, not only one name.<br /><br />I wrote it with a title in mind. My agent didn't like that title. So she sold it under another title. That I don't like.<br /><br />No biggie. Everyone told me publishers always change the title. So I figured I'd wait to see what the publisher thought.<br /><br />And they agreed! That is, they agreed that the title my agent gave it wasn't the right one. Which launched me into session upon session of generating possible titles.<br /><br />In case you are wondering, titles follow no rhyme or reason. Don't believe me? Check the bestseller lists of late.<br /><br />There are the one word (or one wordish titles): <span style="font-style: italic;">Room. Doc. The Help. </span><br />Then there are the egregiously long titles: <span style="font-style: italic;">The Thousand Autumns of Jacob de Zoet </span>(at least four autumns of which is spent just writing the damn name).<br />There are the titles that need in a feminist consciousness raising: <span style="font-style: italic;">The Paris Wife. The Tiger's Wife.</span><br /><br />And dear hearts, I tried my hand at ripping of each and every one of them. Sort of.<br /><br />At some point, as I was shouting out title after title, I screamed <span style="font-style: italic;">The Cask of Amontillado</span>.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I believe that one's been taken</span> the ever helpful Cheez noted.<br />Freaking Canadians, with their penchant for facts.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The OTHER Cask of Amontillado</span> I shouted back.<br /><br />So to recap: Please tell all your friends/mates/venn<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span><strong>/</strong>amigos in North America/the UK/Denmark/Brazil toput <span style="font-style: italic;">The OTHER Cask of Amontillado </span><span>by a certain Not As Prolific But Neither as Frizzy author at the top of their Black History Month gift lists.<br /><br />Because if I can make it to the bestseller list, you know what all the other authors will be saying: <br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">There goes the neighborhood</span>.<br /></span>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-80956950479281678362011-02-06T10:29:00.000-08:002011-02-06T12:37:34.752-08:00Aflush With Pride With News of Pending PublicationQ: What do Picasso<span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>and MacaroniManiac have in common?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9GVYRy4vwhSGkH1Lcznga0w7u5n0-eJcJ75oYItmXVwktX7lP0rQv8chARTY0G33kfr6ASW8fWUaMT3hJp7HEwnT5srKM3HhMmdFuuXSlcrHwJoD9qmeqIzRNVAdZHahXrPkzfc0cyBKW/s1600/picassaleopard.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 115px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj9GVYRy4vwhSGkH1Lcznga0w7u5n0-eJcJ75oYItmXVwktX7lP0rQv8chARTY0G33kfr6ASW8fWUaMT3hJp7HEwnT5srKM3HhMmdFuuXSlcrHwJoD9qmeqIzRNVAdZHahXrPkzfc0cyBKW/s400/picassaleopard.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570654408809997330" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /><br />HINT:<br />It is not a penchant for leopard fashion.<br /></span><br /><br /><br /><br />No, it is that our artistic creations have both been sold at auction.<br /><br />His for $106 million, aka <a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB10001424052748703866704575224873880379734.html">the most money ever paid for a piece of art in an auction</a>.<br /><br />Mine, for a very nice advance for a first-time novelist, aka somewhat less than $106 million.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Q: What do Queen Elizabeth II, Her Royal Highness, and MacaroniManciac have in common?<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRZ_6OD423YnpP5uwufDEtKjAh7OqWklaulAdxFQ9jFos5GwpVuishaefNMU6uWk8z_scrTWiRGC21h7LSoG-Rsi4izUlU_vituGkTUu8Q4CvqNXHMhRtRes39fcwzujFHDqAjI2Z6eWLF/s1600/QueenLizLeopard.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 154px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhRZ_6OD423YnpP5uwufDEtKjAh7OqWklaulAdxFQ9jFos5GwpVuishaefNMU6uWk8z_scrTWiRGC21h7LSoG-Rsi4izUlU_vituGkTUu8Q4CvqNXHMhRtRes39fcwzujFHDqAjI2Z6eWLF/s400/QueenLizLeopard.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570657048050618898" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="font-size:180%;"><br /><br />DOUBLE HINT:<br /><br />Once again, not about the leopard.</span><br /><br />No, it is that Lizzie Deuce and I are both worthy of a pre-empt in the U.K.<br /><br />She, pre-empting whatever happens to be scheduled-pronounced-sheduled on British telly, with coverage of anything newsworthy the palace does, such as <a href="http://www.nationalpost.com/story.html?id=2604228">going to war over the Falkland Islands</a> or <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=opegfB1s3CQ"><span style="text-decoration: underline;">bidding farewell to her ex-daughter-in-law</span></a> or <a href="http://articles.cnn.com/2003-12-24/world/queen.corgi_1_corgi-sandringham-bull-terrier?_s=PM:WORLD">bidding a fonder farewell to her corgies</a>.<br /><br />And I, for my novel, which yes dears, not only sold North American rights at auction this week but also UK rights in a pre-empt.<br /><br />Which means that while some readers will be devouring the story of <a href="http://loisleveen.com/marybowser.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Mary Bowser's journey from slavery to being a free woman of color</span></a>, others will get <span style="font-weight: bold;">Mary Bowser's journey from slavery to being a free woman of colour</span>.<br /><br />This is VERY VERY VERY VERY exciting news.<br /><br />Needless to say, the Cheez and I are celebrating.<br /><br />By installing a new dual-flush, low-flo toilet!!!!<br /><br />Only kidding.<br /><br />Really our neighbor Don installed it.<br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dx-5xTWyeMdu505InqClA_uIMYy74AwpYNWvw726Sc0HQ0r3C0gPMssZsMLVnSiPjKGoq8FM7WccE1kPn7kQA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />Of course, going greener (regardless of whether you are going number 1 or number 2) is only one of the Portlandish ways we celebrated.<br /><br />We began by paying a visit to Mecca.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWC1NP_WfreRvhWiyF8mTSNeH9fF_L2xV4odf9N89UBW2BdA62GscLEj2_chmmYMc7vbHcKDxsVFjCWXl0uiTO2mubMIEJXsZ64Cb3Yl9-9Uz9n_O3XJHuP_O6Uo9kzZBGQQ_XVgU2APKM/s1600/IMG_0908.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhWC1NP_WfreRvhWiyF8mTSNeH9fF_L2xV4odf9N89UBW2BdA62GscLEj2_chmmYMc7vbHcKDxsVFjCWXl0uiTO2mubMIEJXsZ64Cb3Yl9-9Uz9n_O3XJHuP_O6Uo9kzZBGQQ_XVgU2APKM/s400/IMG_0908.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570666404916411186" border="0" /></a>NOTE: that is <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2011/01/my-state-of-disunion-address.html">a Union kepi</a>, not a Confederate kepi.<br /><br />My slogan being not <span style="font-style: italic;">the South will rise again</span> but rather <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2009/07/kicky-kikey-camp-vamp-and-no-i-dont.html"><span style="font-style: italic;">the Mac will read again</span></a>.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijIbMwGwCWLOAWdn3C1nQG1fpyZOjF0OdAzzxZkS0IE4uKv45qBYPqkipNGDsCqUTdUr836M2EhQlmINLakeSx6RAnlAQjjIehq-UbB9Ou0Z4_vkuTkwz6itgbfALMzZ82cdx6J59xUDmB/s1600/%2528null%2529.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 171px; height: 228px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijIbMwGwCWLOAWdn3C1nQG1fpyZOjF0OdAzzxZkS0IE4uKv45qBYPqkipNGDsCqUTdUr836M2EhQlmINLakeSx6RAnlAQjjIehq-UbB9Ou0Z4_vkuTkwz6itgbfALMzZ82cdx6J59xUDmB/s400/%2528null%2529.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570669405625770786" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />We dressed up from the kepi down, and had friends over for an impromptu cocktail party.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />But mostly, we've run around the house screaming.<br /><br />Still, just in case we hadn't screamed it loud enough for you to hear wherever you may be:<br /><br />MY NOVEL GOT SOLD THIS WEEK AND I AM GOING TO BE PUBLISHED ON TWO CONTINENTS AND MORE MAYBE WHEN THE REST OF THE FOREIGN RIGHTS GET HASHED OUT (PLEASE MENTION TO ANY CIVIL WAR-OBSESSED JAPANESE PUBLISHERS YOU HAPPEN TO KNOW) AND YAY YAY YAY, etc.<br /><br />The novel will be out in early 2012. Between now and then, I need to do final edits based on my editor's comments.<br /><br />And, according to my friend Sue, practice saying things like, <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=5013"><span style="font-style: italic;">Thanks, Terry, it's great to be here</span></a>.<br /><br />And figure out what leopard print goes best with blue kepi.<br /><br />And of course start writing my next book.<br /><br />I'm not 100% sure what it will be. The <span style="font-style: italic;">footnote from history</span> angle was clearly the big hook for the first novel. But for the next one, I'm thinking maybe something Cubist. And trading in that kepi for a beret.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizooHBXQpeHMf40_1rUC9tOHyLZSDdsZb7k4mS-FJHycNMsPGE5IzoSrxgj1EZjudN5iDTX2O8vAat-9UlYMqSGMZH5HfhyL1u33rqBw5AnenDGdjbnwfH5-VfogEo8KXd6JqNFhfoCkcH/s1600/macpicassoleopard.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 115px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizooHBXQpeHMf40_1rUC9tOHyLZSDdsZb7k4mS-FJHycNMsPGE5IzoSrxgj1EZjudN5iDTX2O8vAat-9UlYMqSGMZH5HfhyL1u33rqBw5AnenDGdjbnwfH5-VfogEo8KXd6JqNFhfoCkcH/s400/macpicassoleopard.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5570677668681314018" border="0" /></a>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-49193066771352764122011-01-24T19:46:00.000-08:002011-01-24T20:47:03.363-08:00My State of the Disunion AddressI know, I know. I have been pathetically inept at blogging. I apologize. It's not that I don't love you and miss you and want to blog to you. It's just that I've been away.<br /><br />Far away.<br /><br />In the nineteenth century.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjybvkztJSd9IiugnZpPO4zKn8oUTnE9F1s_DakQON4anMuy8aPnxgcHZot8Y9TXtPzNbyNPvLlSaT-rdFNKZ-71YD3BNSToaaSyyqxh9fJfDamDvXYg2DdzD7d0c_oSvQwF-Z34ISIqvny/s1600/Macachusetts54th.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 227px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjybvkztJSd9IiugnZpPO4zKn8oUTnE9F1s_DakQON4anMuy8aPnxgcHZot8Y9TXtPzNbyNPvLlSaT-rdFNKZ-71YD3BNSToaaSyyqxh9fJfDamDvXYg2DdzD7d0c_oSvQwF-Z34ISIqvny/s400/Macachusetts54th.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565969697047992226" border="0" /></a>Wait a minute, that's not my Civil War uniform.<br /><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ6XbboKjf2YG8PGZnUj8HAHLV03pauY1EHr-nFaQ6KBKjB-qQbzKZSTX-bDpXaWeuIvYlGlDzAAnujfJh-b9IcrrRGGM5zDEN0HKsXvcVqJ7LXd5jqoCHcoXhlw-utZoOYO78sHIR2rt_/s1600/pieliberationmac.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 228px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQ6XbboKjf2YG8PGZnUj8HAHLV03pauY1EHr-nFaQ6KBKjB-qQbzKZSTX-bDpXaWeuIvYlGlDzAAnujfJh-b9IcrrRGGM5zDEN0HKsXvcVqJ7LXd5jqoCHcoXhlw-utZoOYO78sHIR2rt_/s400/pieliberationmac.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5565970345674941570" border="0" /></a><br />It's my Pie Liberation Army apron. Worn whenever I must defend the Union of Crust and Filling.<br /><br />Suffice it to say, I am not one to dessert my post. <br /><br />Not unless the infantry band is playing a rousing chorus of <span style="font-style: italic;">Mine Eyes Have Seen the Glory of the Coming of the Lard.</span><br /><br />But let's get back--way back--to the Civil War.<br /><br />Which as it turns out is late-breaking news. As in, the <span style="font-style: italic;">New York Times</span> is sesquicentennially blogging the Civil War in real time.<br /><br />Inasmuch as they had blogs, or computers, or even electrons back in 1861.<br /><br />Well, I guess they had electrons. They just didn't know it. Like some sort of subatomic halitosis that their friend were just too polite to mention.<br /><br />Let me be clear: I am a normal, red-blooded American.<br /><br />Which means the Civil War bored the hell out of me when we had to study it in school, just like it did you and every one else.<br /><br />So how did I become so obsessed with the conflict that I now receive form letters addressed to <span style="font-style: italic;">Dear Civil War Enthusiast</span>?*<br /><br />*NOTE: I don't actually receive those letters. They are mailed to me. But if the Cheez gets to them first, he grabs them and runs around the house mocking me.<br /><br />Let me tell you, when you are <a href="http://www.thetoque.com/">being mocked by a Canadian</a>, you know you have fallen low.<br /><br />Anyway, I became obsessed by the Civil War while accidentally writing a novel. About the Civil War. Which I've been working on, on and off, for, well let's just say I could have fought the Civil War in less time.<br /><br />So Ulysses S. Grant me a few more minutes of your what-the-heck-you're-already-screwing-around-on-the-internet-time and <a href="http://opinionator.blogs.nytimes.com/2011/01/24/the-north-of-the-south/">surf on over to the New York Times</a> to see just how groovy and interesting the Civil War can be, when served up with a healthy portion of MacaroniManiac.Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-12737370544679560452010-10-24T11:59:00.000-07:002010-10-24T12:21:52.301-07:00Who You Calling a Pussy--or a Faggot or Dyke? Gather Round for CUTE KITTENS AGAINST QUEER-BASHING!!!!I know Barack Obama. I <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2008/01/negative-on-blackmail-cause-i-got-no.html">worked with Barack Obama</a>. And my kitten is no Barack Obama.<br /><br />She is a lot cuter. <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2008/01/i-aint-yellow-i-tell-ya-except-in.html">Even if she does look like Edward G. Robinson</a>.<br /><br />But one thing my kitten and Barack Obama have in common: both star in videos about the rather un-cute but unfortunately timely issue of the harassment and bullying of queer teens.<br /><br />So far, Obama's video has gotten a few more viewers.<br /><br />Okay, I know. He's THE PRESIDENT. It's a big deal when he speaks out like this.<br /><br />But how hard can it be? He's got writers, videographers, press people--and an opposable thumb. My cat doesn't have any of that. She doesn't even have her sparkle ball toy. It got knocked under the fridge days ago, and <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2010/04/so-much-for-sit-down-comedy.html">with my bad back</a>, I ain't going in after it.<br /><br />I am guessing you have already heard about the <a href="http://www.itgetsbetterproject.com/">It Gets Better Project</a> -- organized by sex columnist Dan Savage to give teens who need it some insight into how their future might look. I respect that the President, Nancy Pelosi, Gloria Estefan and a lot of other famous people have made videos. But you know, most of those videos seem kind of like a grown-up talking AT a kid, not someone talking to a kid in the way a kid (and teens ARE kids despite what they want to believe) needs.<br /><br />So even though I have ten thousand other things to do, I spent all yesterday making this:<br /><br /><object style="background-image: url(http://i3.ytimg.com/vi/2D4rYKwaYtw/hqdefault.jpg);" height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/2D4rYKwaYtw?fs=1&hl=en_US"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/2D4rYKwaYtw?fs=1&hl=en_US" allowscriptaccess="never" allowfullscreen="true" wmode="transparent" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />I hope you'll take 2 minutes, 54 seconds to watch it. And then a few more to <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2D4rYKwaYtw">post a comment on youtube</a> about it, <a href="http://www.facebook.com">Facebook</a> it, <a href="http://www.twitter.com">Twitter</a> it, forward it to anyone you can. Because some place in WhoKnowsWhereville there is someone who needs to hear what it has to say. Someone whose life it might even save. And since my cat is an indoor cat, there is no way she can go out and find that someone to say it in person. Please help the cat and the kid and the world, by passing it on.<br /><br />Just for the record, though: the kids out there aren't being bullied because their queer. Or "suspected" of being queer. They're being bullied because we live in a bigoted, cruel culture that likes to pick on anyone who's different.<br /><br />But sometimes being different can make you want to make a difference. Like that scrawny, biracial guy with the funny name. Or that cat with a face only a gangster movie could love. Or the chick wearing way too much leopard who really should be doing her laundry before she heads out of town on a business trip. So please do your part to pass it on.Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-63827694891530623722010-09-19T21:05:00.000-07:002010-09-19T22:50:55.704-07:00Greek Bearing G.I.F.T.My friend Stella Unpronounceableadopolous and her husband Dr. Mensch came to visit a while back. Far enough back that I was flat on my back, still in the depths of <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2010/04/so-much-for-sit-down-comedy.html">ruptured disk-induce pain</a>.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You should really see a surgeon</span> Dr. Mensch said.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You should really meet my friend Silke </span>Stella Unpronounceableadopolous said.<br /><br />Since the surgeon had a four-week wait for an appointment but Silke was available that Tuesday, she got me first. She even made a house call.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Hello, I am Silke</span> Silke said, arriving at our house exactly on time. Because Silke is German. A German-Immersed-in-Fitness-Training, aka G.I.F.T. <span style="font-style: italic;">May I take your picture?</span><br /><br />At this point, I'd been MRIed, ultrasounded, and electro-stimulated. I wasn't about to be phased by something that can be done <a href="http://www.olanmills.com/gallery/special-events.asp">at any Kmart with a bad floral backdrop and a shag-carpeted hand rest</a>.<br /><br />So I let Silke the G.I.F.T take my picture. Actually, she took a bunch of them. Then she whipped out a clipboard and started taking notes on every aspect of my posture.<br /><br />Which it turns out sucked.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbivsUEpibAPoSnvvo8FTrdMw4j1pgrmN8AkQEuW2Kiwkq40R1BBXku3TzGWNQAse3lkuNhYNXOL7Ea-wN8J_VPOjyIw7f9nWwyMXB-ItdlTzs6ytbcLaDd5SiZXTzYmg07drKyW1aspDm/s1600/Picture+2.png"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 271px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbivsUEpibAPoSnvvo8FTrdMw4j1pgrmN8AkQEuW2Kiwkq40R1BBXku3TzGWNQAse3lkuNhYNXOL7Ea-wN8J_VPOjyIw7f9nWwyMXB-ItdlTzs6ytbcLaDd5SiZXTzYmg07drKyW1aspDm/s400/Picture+2.png" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518851916558304898" border="0" /></a><br />My posture, I mean. Her notetaking didn't suck. It was immaculate. She is, after all, German.<br /><br />And her Duetsche-ishly detailed and diligent denoting clearly revealed that somewhere along the way, I had become as crook-limbed as a contortionist flying coach class.<br /><br />Luckily, Silke the G.I.F.T could offer more than a packet of peanuts and a complimentary beverage.<br /><br />Because Silke the G.I.F.T gave me the gift of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Egoscue</span>.<br /><br />(Pronunciation guide: <span style="font-style: italic;">Egoscue</span> sorta rhymes with <span style="font-style: italic;">He toss shoe</span>, appropriate enough given that my inability to tie my shoes had been leading me to toss everything from footwear to hissy fits for quite some time).<br /><br />Egoscue is not some Eastern European method of torture smuggled out across the Alps.<br /><br />It was actually smuggled out of San Diego. <a href="http://www.dietbarn.com/egoscue_method_comes_to_albany_ny_area.html"> By Arnold Palmer</a>.<br /><br />And it's not torture. It's just postural alignment. Which you attain by doing a bunch of exercises with charming monikers such as <span style="font-style: italic;">Hooklying Gluteal Contractions </span>and<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"> Frog Pull-overs</span></span>.<br /><br />Really, frog pull-over. The closest I'll ever come to my childhood dream of <a href="http://www.loobalee.com/blog/garanimals-making-a-comeback/">dressing in Garanimals</a>.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiodJm3Gk5X3121nTY4Cz3eVfHphTDiGt9X4pqTbxgPTpWzzzX7q_pSq1Xg6R-zj3I2Mst4XWRS8aAoQhOftZNJpG7vtDNh0_jY99MPteh4UWA-Vt5XkjUbM8GYVtsKm95XO0LiN8z0urFk/s1600/dankesilke.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiodJm3Gk5X3121nTY4Cz3eVfHphTDiGt9X4pqTbxgPTpWzzzX7q_pSq1Xg6R-zj3I2Mst4XWRS8aAoQhOftZNJpG7vtDNh0_jY99MPteh4UWA-Vt5XkjUbM8GYVtsKm95XO0LiN8z0urFk/s400/dankesilke.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5518860696546048706" border="0" /></a><br />(Not to be confused with my adult dream of decorating in animal print, which I am achieving quite admirably).<br /><br />Silke the G.I.F.T. spent a couple hours teaching me my exercises, which she told me I had to do every morning.<br /><br />Which I did. <br /><br />And which--unlike the prescription painkillers, the steroid tapers, the over-the-counter NSAID, and the $1000+ worth of physical therapy--actually worked.<br /><br />Four days later, I rode my bike twenty miles. Two weeks later, Silke the G.I.F.T came back to take more notes and give me new exercises. Then another week later, she moved back to Germany. But by that point, I'd been to see the surgeon but realized I was improved enough not to need to go under the knife. <br /><br />Besides, Silke the G.I.F.T. left me in the hands of another Egoscue practioner. Who has been slowly but surely getting me back to a fully functioning back.<br /><br />Moral of the story: if you didn't believe the American healthcare system is completely screwed up, ponder this: <span style="font-weight: bold;">the warmth and sympathy of a German was the best thing that happened to me during this entire medical odyssey</span>. <a href="http://www.auschwitz.dk/mengele.htm">This is not a concept that comes easily to members of my tribe</a>.<br /><br />But I suppose it's better to have one's simplistic associating of all things German with the Nazis ruptured than to have one's L5-s1 disk ruptured. Henceforth, I swear, I'll stop <a href="http://www.catsthatlooklikehitler.com/cgi-bin/seigboardbest.pl?5249:1">being so catty when it comes to Krauts</a>. <br /><br />Okay, maybe not. But at least I'm parodying with impeccable posture.Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-30900254277712219382010-09-13T21:31:00.000-07:002010-09-13T23:27:25.557-07:00Descent from My iPhoneHow in the hell can Apple sink so low?<br /><br />No, I'm not talking about the kind of <a href="http://www.iphonedownloadblog.com/2010/01/29/ipad-sucks/">shit product releases</a> that can be summed up in three words and one numeric symbol:<br /><span style="font-weight: bold;"><br />iPad=my bad</span><br /><br />I am talking about the kind of shit morals that requires two freaking hours of masterful condemnation by a man who comports himself much like a Revivalist preacher with a cult following.<br /><br />Except sweatier.<br /><br />Of course the cult in question is ... well, let's just say I bit the fruit and now I've been cast out of Eden.<br /><br />Not that sweat is inherently antithetical to Apple. I happened to require some customer dis-service at our local crApple store this week, and the pimply-faced staff were so sweaty the place smelled like a college dorm during Finals Week.<br /><br />And people, I used to teach at Reed College, so I know from smelly students.<br /><br />I suppose I shouldn't have been so judgmental of the mouth-breather behind the counter who was taking so damn long to help me. He was probably only mouth-breathing to avoid smelling his shiny, happy coworkers.<br /><br />Although, given their perspiratory tendencies, maybe that should be sheeny, happy coworkers.<br /><br />But still the sweaty man rang out his righteous indignation.<br /><br />Except, actually, he's not a cult leader. He's a cult follower. And he knows you are too. And even though he spent those two hours telling you how freakin' evil the freakin' cult is, he doesn't actually ask you to leave it.<br /><br />Just to email it.<br /><br />Which, if you are like me, you will be doing from a burnished-silver keyboard <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/VAG_Rounded">annotated in VAG Rounded font</a>.<br /><br />Welcome to that very special case of self-hating ethnics, the morally outraged Apple user.<br /><br />iWouldn't actually buy an iPad, because it is a stupid, purposeless product.<br /><br />Not like my iPhone, which I bought because I needed to make and receive calls.<br /><br />Which I can do on my iPhone.<br /><br />On rare occasions.<br /><br />If I'm not trying to call someone who also has an iPhone.<br /><br />Case in point: my best friend's mother died, and I called to offer my condolences. But we both have iPhones. To make a long cancer-ridden death short, after we were cut off fifteen freakin' times, my friend finally Skyped to Chuck's cell phone--which, unlike my SmartPhone only has middling intelligence but which with the regularity of any idiot savant is able to make or receive calls any time the owner wants. All that, just so I could say the usual <span style="font-style: italic;">You may not be able to realize it now, but I promise, life goes on</span> tripe of condolence, by which point it was moot since your iPhone not working is actually life going on. And on and on.<br /><br />Oh, wait, I'm the one who's going on and on here. But not about what I meant to go on about.<br /><br />Let's get back to the sweaty man.<br /><br />He comes to Portland to tell us what's wrong with the world. Which was one thing <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2008/09/emfatic-on-national-security.html">when he was telling us how evil the President is when the President was George W</a>.<br /><br />But quite another one he is telling us how evil the President is when the President is Steve Jobs. As in president, or rather CEO, of Apple.<br /><br />Which, as well all know, makes personal electronics that are to die for. <a href="http://www.theepochtimes.com/n2/content/view/36375/">We just didn't know how literally</a>.<br /><br />At least not until the sweaty man told us.<br /><br />Now, I'm the sort of <a href="http://jcarrot.org/got-a-food-question-ask-the-shmethicist">shmethically-driven consumer who won't eat a Hershey's Kiss for fear it's been produced using child labor</a>.<br /><br />But the thing about a Hershey's Kiss is, at least it works. What should I think knowing my iPhone, and all my other damn electronics, functional or not, have been produced with child labor?<br /><br />Luckily, the sweaty man was there to tell me. In no Arid-Extra-Dry terms.<br /><br />One <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimtkJWxIWLFaQr2Yx-bRCXAfr2KsvIe0rrccfQoPgsjfTnctjAASvtiU1os1b-VqhQCuOBwNcD-0FbYQ8r0uQ81NiXjTdeG6xyIV7a5CCgkJJD4bw0cVRbZJhkv2HwxJgQmEhKIaikEDlc/s1600/NotYrBchDaisey.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimtkJWxIWLFaQr2Yx-bRCXAfr2KsvIe0rrccfQoPgsjfTnctjAASvtiU1os1b-VqhQCuOBwNcD-0FbYQ8r0uQ81NiXjTdeG6xyIV7a5CCgkJJD4bw0cVRbZJhkv2HwxJgQmEhKIaikEDlc/s400/NotYrBchDaisey.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516647098497208178" border="0" /></a>thing you can say about Mike Daisey is that he is nobody's bitch.<br /><br />Which makes him different than me.<br /><br />Because once upon a time, I wrote <a href="http://bitchmagazine.org/article/factory-girl">a piece for <span style="font-weight: bold;">Bitch</span> magazine about the evils of worker abuse in Chinese factories</a>.<br /><br />And since <span style="font-weight: bold;">Bitch</span> has <span style="font-style: italic;">feminist response to pop culture</span> right in the title, I figured it was a pretty safe bet to talk about how multinational corporation Viacom exploits factory workers in China, exposing them to lead and other chemicals, to produce cheap Dora the Explorer toys to sell to Americans.<br /><br />Which promptly led to a helluva lot of hate mail to <span style="font-weight: bold;">Bitch</span> about me, from people saying I was racist for criticizing a Latina cartoon character.<br /><br />Racist? Nope. Naive? Maybe. Because see, I expected people to give up their cheap slave-labor made toys.<br /><br />Not like Mike Daisey. He says you can keep your iPhone. Hell, you can even watch Dora the Explorer on it. Just so long as you<a href="mailto:sjobs@apple.com"> email Steve Jobs</a> first, typing with however many thumbs you happen to have (hint: if you've been working at the Shenzhen factory that makes Apple products, it may be fewer thumbs than you started with), to tell him that you think anyone who's as big a genius as he is can probably figure out a way to get products manufactured that doesn't involve child labor.<br /><br />Or even adult labor, if those adults happen to be laboring 80+ hours per week, and/or sleeping 14 to a ten foot by ten foot room in the company dorm.<br /><br />Because really, Apple should leave the evil to those who do it best: Microsoft.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgszuWGdbNxtbHCSfKgie59gRbkTulmAJobNhp5jGWpgYWyuQKu2O7FXQ_JOYMoa8-pQkpiL12phG2MCXhMcOuPR_Ihsy3kRnz3UGRU-9nlvmJSK-2a0iiaqkqcmky1Y04K1pneT_t8VfvH/s1600/emailtostevejobs.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 203px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgszuWGdbNxtbHCSfKgie59gRbkTulmAJobNhp5jGWpgYWyuQKu2O7FXQ_JOYMoa8-pQkpiL12phG2MCXhMcOuPR_Ihsy3kRnz3UGRU-9nlvmJSK-2a0iiaqkqcmky1Y04K1pneT_t8VfvH/s400/emailtostevejobs.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5516651887314979298" border="0" /></a>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-3790723934041002122010-07-15T12:49:00.000-07:002010-07-15T16:17:41.533-07:00Suffering From Everything But Irony DeficiencyIt's been a while, I know. Perhaps you are wondering <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2010/04/so-much-for-sit-down-comedy.html">how my ruptured disk is doing</a>.<br /><br />Much better. So much better that yesterday I ended up in <a href="http://www.ohsu.edu/emergency/">Portland's favorite Level I trauma center</a> (or as kdz 2day w thr txt spllgs mt pt it, ER@OHSU).<br /><br />Quick recap: after months of suffering with nerve pain from my fabulous L5-S1 rupture, I've been feeling better. So much better that in the battle of desk v. disk, desk is winning. I can now sit for much longer at my new ultrarock hard desk chair (picture Aeron means Flintstone).<br /><br />But still, I know I should get up and stretch periodically, and walk around for at least half an hour in the middle of the day. So midday yesterday, I left work for a short walk.<br /><br />But first I sealed my own fate. By calling my sister and then another friend and telling both how I was feeling much better. Which anyone who has ever taken 11th grade English class (or just <a href="http://www.wisegeek.com/what-is-hubris.htm">read the cliffnotes on the internet</a>) can tell you means you have tempted the gods, who will strike you down just as soon as they get done <a href="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/jane-wales/philanthropy-and-educatio_b_611562.html">reading some very compelling article or other on the Huffington Post</a>.<br /><br />Fate sealed, I head for the nefarious route known as Portland's riverfront walk.<br /><object height="385" width="480"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/aWPuAxpCyqw&hl=en_US&fs=1"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/aWPuAxpCyqw&hl=en_US&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="385" width="480"></embed></object><br />Although in my case, the operative verb turned out to be fly.<br /><br />I am walking along, listening to a fascinating audio file of a program about what education philanthropists can do to ensure schools better serve English Language Learners. So fascinating I stop to jot down a note on some bit o' brilliance shared by <a href="https://webapp4.asu.edu/directory/person/489623">Eugene Garcia</a>.<br /><br />Which is when I suddenly notice that I am staring straight up at the sky.<br /><br />No, wait, I'm lying smack down on the concrete.<br /><br />Wait, piecing it together here . . . I have flown up and fallen smack down on the concrete. That thwacking noise was not in fact Eugene Garcia adding emphasis to his point. It was my skull, hitting the ground.<br /><br />Although I am sure that if I were from Eugene Garcia's home state of Arizona, I could somehow blame this all on him. Or <a href="http://www.sfgate.com/cgi-bin/blogs/opinionshop/detail?blogid=42&entry_id=62843">on any Mexican</a>, really.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Are you okay?</span> some looming head above me asks.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I think we should call 9-1-1 </span>I answer, holding up my iPhone.<br /><br />Which of course the looming head above me cannot figure out how to work.<br /><br />Luckily, I am (as I learn much, much later) not the only lady from New York on the scene.<br /><br />Enter Cara. Or Keira. Or Kayira. I should know this, after all she did introduce herself, somewhere between saying she knew first aid and saying her phone was out and she was already dialing 9-1-1 and where exactly were we anyway because she wasn't from Portland.<br /><br />Which thank god she isn't, because then she wouldn't be from New York. And then I'd still be laying there waiting for some nice Portlander to have the chutzpah to figure out how to call 9-1-1 in response to my fabulous aerial show.<br /><br />Once I determine that I:<br /><ol><li>remember my name (even if I may not have exactly caught hers)</li><li>have not lost consciousness at any point, and<br /></li><li>am freakin' terrified that I've got a spinal chord injury (a new one, I mean; the ruptured disk no longer being front page news)</li></ol>I figure that I shoul at least assist Cara/Keira/Kayira by serving as associate director of the scene.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Could everyone who doesn't have to be here please move on?</span> I ask, noticing now there are many looming heads.<br /><br />So now we pare down to:<br /><ul><li>Cara/Keira/Kayira and her two adorable very young daughters, who are interrupting the 9-1-1 call to ask Mommy some pertinent questions. <span style="font-style: italic;">Why is the lady lying there? Why is it important that the lady knows her name? Does everyone in Portland know how to fly?</span></li><li>Brian, the bicyclist to whom I owe my entire aerial career<br /></li><li>Some guy who says <span style="font-style: italic;">I think I should stay here. I'm trying to block the sun.</span> Meaning, he is trying to keep me from enjoying too much of a post-flight fry while we wait for the EMTs. </li></ul>Mr. Homo Sapien Sunblock really is concerned for my well-being. <span style="font-style: italic;">You should be wearing a helmet</span> he lectures.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I was just walking</span> I say. Although I now notice that the bottom half of me is lying on top of the bicycle, which may help explain the confusion. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />You should be wearing a helmet</span> I tell Brian. <span style="font-style: italic;">90 percent of all cyclists who are killed are not wearing helmets</span> I add. Which is true. Although technically Brian doesn't have a scratch on him, helmet or no.<br /><br />Still, we all seize the teachable moment. <span style="font-style: italic;">See girls,</span> Cara/Keira/Kayira intones to her adorable offspring, <span style="font-style: italic;">it is so important to wear helmets. Doesn't Mommy always wear a helmet on her Scoot?</span><br /><br />Our little course in bicycle safety is alas interrupted by the arrival of the EMTs. <span style="font-style: italic;"><br /><br />What happened?</span> they ask. Which sets everyone talking at once.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Let me tell them</span> I say <span style="font-style: italic;">They need to assess my cognitives.</span><br /><br />This is the one advantage I bring to this scene, garnered from the year of living brainjurously. That is, the exciting year in which my sister had <a href="http://www.brainaneurysm.com/">a brain aneurysm</a> and then my brother, not to be left out, had <a href="http://emedicine.medscape.com/article/337534-overview">a brain bleed from a cavernous hemangioma</a>. Which means I know just what medical professionals want to know about my brain.<br /><br />And I kind of want to know it too, just as soon as they tell me that my spine is fine.<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">Fine spine<br />brain pain</span><br />pretty much is the four-word poem that is my condition.<br /><br />But wait, there's more. Spinning. Which is what the whole world--EMTs, unhelmeted cyclist, Cara/Keira/Kayira and kids, human sunblock, etc.--does, if I try to sit up.<br /><br />Which leads Morgan the EMT to ask the single most critical question a healthcare provider can ask: <span style="font-style: italic;">What's your insurance?</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Healthnet</span> I answer. Then I have to explain that my arm didn't lash out due to a spasm from my injury, that was just the automatic impulse of any Healthnet subscriber: call for pre-authorization.<br /><br />The EMTs don't bother with preauthorization, happily. They just load me onto the gurney, delighted that I weigh only about a third of their average patient. And off we go, with Cara/Keira/Kayira calling after me, <span style="font-style: italic;">make sure you put arnica gel on anything that feels sore, as soon as you get home. Girls, doesn't Mommy always put arnica on your bruises?</span><br /><br />Speaking of Cara/Keira/Kayira, at some point during my riparian layabout, I've had the good sense to ask her to call my office and let them know that maybe I am not headed back there today. And to have the office manager call Cheez. Who then calls Cara/Keira/Kayira before taking a quick run through the streets of downtown Portland to find a cab.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">I got a Middle Eastern cabbie</span> he reports later <span style="font-style: italic;">thank Allah. Because man, could he drive fast.</span><br /><br />So fast that Cheez arrives at the hospital before my ambulance. Which apparently didn't bother putting on its flashers and sirens for the ride. Causing Cheez, who actually had thought I was hit by car, to reason as he watched the ambulance backing up to the ER that either my injuries weren't bad and I would be fine, or that I was already dead.<br /><br />As you can guess, it was not the latter.<br /><br />In fact, by the time they wheel me in, I'm cracking jokes with the EMTs, and lecturing the intake nurse about how she could improve her approach when asking the standard intake questions. <span style="font-style: italic;">You shouldn't say, "No illegal drugs?" because it assumes what the patient's answer will be</span> I scold. And <span style="font-style: italic;">You should make an excuse to send the partner out of the room before you ask about domestic violence.</span><br /><br />This is the point at which Cheez whips out his phone and starts calling everyone who knows about the accident and is worrying over me, to tell them that I seem to be back to my usual self.<br /><br />Except that I still can't sit up, lest the room start spinning.<br /><br />A nice young resident comes in to do my exam. This is the joy about being at the best hospital in Portland. It's a teaching hospital. Which means my brain is once again a teachable moment.<br /><br />Now, if you think there is even the tinsiest possibility that you have the tinsiest hemorrhage in the tinsiest area of your brain, knowing your fate is in the hands of <a href="http://online.wsj.com/article/SB124287226881642045.html">a twenty-seven-year-old who hasn't had a full night's sleep since 2008</a> can be slightly unsettling.<br /><br />Luckily, I'd already had the foresight to have Cheez call our neighbor Justin. And not because I wanted to<a href="http://www.facebook.com/pages/The-Breakfast-Club-Band-Portland-Oregon/370955650960?v=info"> hear some 80s tunes</a> or <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2008/05/baboo-paneer.html">ride in some 80s car</a>. It's because although Kevin, the boy-face resident examining my brain, may been born the same year that <a href="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0088847/">Molly Ringwald, Anthony Michael Hall and Emilio Estevez were Wang Chunging it through detention</a>, as Justin's fondness for that year suggests, he was a tad older by then.<br /><br />Which makes him old enough to be a many years of experience full on ER doc. The very one as it turns out Kevin will be training with on next month's rotation.<br /><br />And luckily, Kevin, Justin and <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2009/11/oh-humanities.html">Dr. Macaronimanaic</a> all agree that CAT scans are for people who don't have<a href="http://abcnews.go.com/Health/CancerPreventionAndTreatment/ct-scan-radiation-lead-29000-cancers-researchers-warn/story?id=9340190"> a healthy fear of brain cancer</a>.<br /><br />Makes you wonder that they can ever do them on Jews.<br /><br />So I'm just sitting around with an IV-drip of sodium, wondering whether I'll ever sit up again, when some guy who<span style="font-weight: bold;"></span> pulls back the curtain on my ER cubby and begins scrubbing up.<br /><br />A guy, I should mention, who looks like he's just stepped out of an aftershave ad and (this being Oregon's premier hospital after all) who's dressed like said ad appeared in <span style="font-weight: bold;">Sports Fishing Monthly</span>.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Er, who might you be on today's medical odyssey? </span>I ask.<br /><br />He claims to be the supervising physician. I'm a little leery because I've seen Kevin talking to his supervising physician, and she doesn't look a thing like the braced-chin-and-civvy-wearing fellow before us.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Check his i.d.</span> I tell Cheez. Who does. Actually they both do. We all agree it isn't the most up to date shot, but yes, it tells us this guy, whose last name could be Jewish but let's face it, <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2010/02/articles-shmarticles-i-read-it-for.html">we all know what ads they put Jews in</a>, and manly is not the term for them.<br /><br />After establishing that the previous supervising physician has gone off duty, Dr. Not-Jewish offers me the juice of my choice and asks Cheez <span style="font-style: italic;">are you a reliable person?<br /><br /></span>To which my reliable mate answers <span style="font-style: italic;">I am Canadian.<br /><br />He wants you to make sure I don't fall over</span> I say.<br /><br />And I don't, as I ease up to a sit, well juiced.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVXTvmGZTj9Rkp0RwwUY3Eeh_PHoU_k2Pk0r-1pnTlz8_DIha7lAUA25VN-xGru4QouXXuayQrwchAESzFbkIwx_ISfVjQxSLH2SOcjH3zeBMtrpVQK9c72MCqn8QULE-I2l_D61yQYRes/s1600/IMG_0075.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVXTvmGZTj9Rkp0RwwUY3Eeh_PHoU_k2Pk0r-1pnTlz8_DIha7lAUA25VN-xGru4QouXXuayQrwchAESzFbkIwx_ISfVjQxSLH2SOcjH3zeBMtrpVQK9c72MCqn8QULE-I2l_D61yQYRes/s400/IMG_0075.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5494261010155496818" border="0" /></a>Things are more teeter-tottering than spinning. I can't close my jaw. But the team determines that's about muscle, not bone, and I think we all know there's arnica gel in my future anyway.<br /><br />Before you know it, I'm taking my second flight of the day.<br /><br /><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/CUvzztoqYhc&hl=en&fs=1"></param><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"></param><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/CUvzztoqYhc&hl=en&fs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br />On the aerial tram down from the hospital (note safety-conscious Portlanders wearing helmets--apparently during my time on Pill Hill the earlier riverside chanting has had time to truly take hold among the masses).<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">This is way cooler than the ambulance</span> I tell Cheez. <span style="font-style: italic;">Maybe they out to have a trambulance.</span><br /><br />It's a weak joke, I know. But hey, I am concussed! Plus, some guy standing next to us laughed anyway.<br /><br />Cheez and I then walk about three miles home, during which time we recite all the things we're happy about. Happy it was a bike, not a car. Happy my skull did its work. Happy that, amazingly enough, my ruptured disk actually seems a little BETTER after the flight-to-full-on-concrete-fall.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Think of it as the ultimate chiropractic adjustment</span> says Cheez.<br /><br />And I do. I just hope Healthnet covers chiropracty without pre-approval. At least when it's administered by a moving vehicle.Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-27402781246712310342010-05-15T23:56:00.000-07:002010-05-27T07:08:53.320-07:00England Swings Like a Pendulum Do. If By Pendulum You Mean 50,000 Square Miles Inhabited by 51 Million People Ruled by Constitutional Monarchy.<div style="text-align: left;">I have been to London!</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">I have met the Queen!</div><div><br /></div><div>Actually, two queens.</div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiybhurrAbExBrBGEerfkuR0RKa8xGejObzHyXBmnD9LkZn9I8_V2HIQVWEOqLMCI0btxmdUVyySKR-roVpsrk6WFuq0jriU216EJxob_TShjKBulk9qfijzpVmlRXiBHc9FS3chwTlLf7y/s200/IMG_0040-4.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5471763320816380130" /><div>Co-owners of 69theGrope.</div><div><br /></div><div>I mean, <a href="http://www.69thegrove.com/">69theGrove, the charming B&B </a>where we stayed in Vauxhall, a quiet residential neighborhood where visitors can enjoy some <a href="http://www.gaysauna.co.uk/Vauxhall/vauxhall.htm">good clean fun</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>We met in church </i>David said, squeezing Kanley's hand.</div><div><br /></div><div>Normally, I'm not that comfortable staying in the sort of place where you have to stare at a notecard proclaiming <b>Christ is Risen</b> while you eat breakfast. But in this instance, Christ seemed to be risen from his <a href="http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=disco%20nap">disco nap</a>, just before slipping on some tight pants and heading out to the local. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because London is all about a good time.</div><div><br /></div><div>I know what you're thinking, dear reader. Wasn't traveling difficult with my <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2010/04/so-much-for-sit-down-comedy.html">current injury</a>? Well, though the flight was no picnic (despite the presence of plastic cutlery), the week itself was great, since like certain other international travelers, I realized <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/05/16/opinion/16rich.html">the value of having a strong young man to tote my luggage</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, when you've been with someone as long as I've been with the Cheez, you know he isn't merely a rent boy. More a long-term lease boy.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Remind me to use my stomach muscles to support my spine</i> I said before we departed. Which he took as license to spend the entire week shouting <i>Suck in that gut, soldier</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>England was very educational. Even the flight over, on which we watched <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EKs3yIZolsM">The Young Victoria</a> like we were cramming for the history exam. </div><div><br /></div><div>Here's what I learned: circa 1830, sending a chick sheet-music was the equivalent of making her a mixed tape in 1987.</div><div><br /></div><div>If my knowledge of Brit history was shoddy, my knowledge of Brit geography was even worse. Riding the tube from Heathrow to the B&B, I realized that everything I knew about London came from Clash songs.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixl5JX1cesU0Js4EBAt7sKjt3GiQJbaquobu5z-slO1xRMQ5_0FXQtfNlsux0guwy43FcFF_VSDaJ_K_4iMreIBEF1pns1adefoYNrWay9mbXzj9yMPNwYOG9X9C-bEN2NJVyNgEbfKX0L/s1600/whitemacathamm.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 249px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEixl5JX1cesU0Js4EBAt7sKjt3GiQJbaquobu5z-slO1xRMQ5_0FXQtfNlsux0guwy43FcFF_VSDaJ_K_4iMreIBEF1pns1adefoYNrWay9mbXzj9yMPNwYOG9X9C-bEN2NJVyNgEbfKX0L/s400/whitemacathamm.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475783980921305938" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';"><b>White Mac at Hammersmith Tube Stop</b></span></div></div><div><br /></div><div>As we wandered around the city that first day, I did manage to recognize Buckingham Palace. Even without the usual assortment of flowers and teddy bears they festoon it with every time something so crap happens in Britain they put it on the American tellie.</div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcVKpbkn37DaJCINbIAa9-Rc36XuTcjyI4g3nKsJAYzIMw4npjxGyKtJh42dQphzw_5LZqMBJVQd_u3OlQfdaXiv3_uTyezwWhmO4n_Wrm7qTgr7S7s_0NWSCQ1IIQPtHuvIDPkZP8qemK/s320/73389659.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475797035221608498" /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><b><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:'trebuchet ms';">Oh my, I hope they aren't going to pre-empt my Wheel of Fortune for this one</span></b></div><div><br /></div><div><i>Tellie</i>, btw, is British for <i>T.V.</i> This is one of the confusing things about Britain: they barely speak English over there.</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Fancy a fag?</i> is British for <i>Want a cigarette? </i>whereas <i>Fancy a bloke?</i> is British for <i>Fancy a fag?</i> It's an amazing place, really.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEyfSOmGT4u_O3q81VWet_Q9SmBCl_vjWe8CwS08o8XKuhE9LixZq-sVWC108D9jWHDnqP9pPGgP-oA26bLEpxqh-RdtFK-SGd2FMR50_Wl-cAqly96ZYH9CWnT-QmyAuAAbU9owz6lgTj/s1600/N03474_9.jpg"><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 198px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEyfSOmGT4u_O3q81VWet_Q9SmBCl_vjWe8CwS08o8XKuhE9LixZq-sVWC108D9jWHDnqP9pPGgP-oA26bLEpxqh-RdtFK-SGd2FMR50_Wl-cAqly96ZYH9CWnT-QmyAuAAbU9owz6lgTj/s320/N03474_9.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475798757425385634" /></a><br /></div><div>Speaking of fancy fags, at the Tate Britain we learned about the early-17th-century roots of Glam Rock, as in this stunning work, <i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">Portrait of </span></span></i><span class="work_title"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;">James Hamilton, Earl of Arran, Later 3rd Marquis and 1st Duke of Hamilton, Aged 17.</span></span></i></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size:medium;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:georgia;"></span></span></i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Nothing I enjoy more than a little glitter dust and an interregnum.</div><div><br /></div><div>Much of the art in England seems to be portraiture. This is not exactly a good thing, given how unattractive the British are.</div><div><br /></div><div>That is not me being narrow-minded, btw. It is a proven fact. <a href="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/relationships/6542263/British-people-among-worlds-ugliest-according-to-BeautifulPeople.com.html">It was in the <i>Telegraph</i></a>. The <i>Telegraph</i> is British for <i>slightly less sleazy newspaper than most of the rags we've got over here, but what are you complaining about, at least when we're reading them on the Tube you don't have to see our faces</i>.</div><div><br /></div><div>It was actually the ugliness that sold Cheez on the trip in the first place. <i>Let's go to England</i>, he said, <i>we will be like Supermodels</i><i> compared to everyone there</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>We were mostly supermodels of rudeness, since we spent the entire trip talking in a wide array of fake British accents. Upon viewing this JMW Turner painting, Cheez felt the need to proclamate upon its subject matter:</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUU63RZk4mM4DP2sIiL-4ZcVgMjCUvVp4Hnj75bCfEaOIMTDg_qAKys_b3Ajd7E8eYDRLCsHT6q1JulcDCkknt9l9Ucd0RBzbAogjBGRTQjcg6MStGVMQ_8TekeZ8Nsjp6DYrP4eeE2v05/s1600/N02704_9.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 234px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhUU63RZk4mM4DP2sIiL-4ZcVgMjCUvVp4Hnj75bCfEaOIMTDg_qAKys_b3Ajd7E8eYDRLCsHT6q1JulcDCkknt9l9Ucd0RBzbAogjBGRTQjcg6MStGVMQ_8TekeZ8Nsjp6DYrP4eeE2v05/s320/N02704_9.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475803841868289890" /></a></div><div><i>Religious cows is queued up for church. More godless ones is in the foreground, grazin. </i>Whereas I would find myself rummaging through my luggage as I struggled to get dressed each morning, intoning <i>Where's all me knickers at?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>The thing about the British is, they really talk that way. All the damn time. We saw a family in the park playing with their dog, a fluffy white terrier named Snowy. At some point, the adorable daughter of the family threw the ball and Snowy caught it just before it landed in the lake in the park. A mustachioed sixty-something man passing by happened to observe the scene and said to the dog, <i>Well done, Snowy</i>. As if the pup had just rescued his entire regiment from the Germans.</div><div><br /></div><div>I swear, the whole country is like a freakin <b>Monty Python</b> sketch. Right down to the physical comedy.</div><div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div></div><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwsgDHZAl9eoWNaxG6CVMLORM9Luhr1UEMe71IEFOLgUKdejwD2dTzzu5kWXmJXHUGG15ED7mFKYTSKlZ2YQg' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><div>Turns out, John Cleese etal. weren't writing comedy. They were merely transcribing it.</div><div><br /></div><div>I took that video at the <b>Tower of London</b>, another educational stop. We learned that if you are locked up in the Tower awaiting execution, you might as well <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/60861613@N00/sets/72157617608716899/">graffiti the hell out of the place</a>, because what are they going to do if they catch you?</div><div><br /></div><div>Also we learned that you can trace just how fat Henry VIII was at any given time by checking out his suits of armor, which escalate in size from <i>Normal</i> to <i>Husky</i> to <i>What Else Can We Melt Down to Get Enough Metal to Cover this Fat Fuck</i>?</div><div><br /></div><div>It is a true fact that there is nothing I enjoy more on vacation than a </div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_HD0quATIqiGXEwNyOO_2gd-KpNJXS2fo7sf_EZauDkxo8XjzWJW85V1QaJaK6wje6DXtXYouyGHr9_BYhCSHaKz260FWPnfQDIXoTTzMVyszwaSK9pkeljqUgei5VazODtdRB9eWHpck/s200/IMG_4934.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5475812261569030162" /><div>ranger-led tour. </div><div><br /></div><div>In England, due to not having had the good sense of inventing Smokey the Bear, they do not have rangers in Smokey the Bear hats. </div><div><br /></div><div>So their version of a ranger-led tour involves a guy dressed up like the bloke on the gin. Who spends an hour or thereabouts traipsing around the <b>Tower of London</b> telling you tidbits like <i>For five centuries, we had a moat here that was the largest open toilet in London. Quite a line of defense.</i> Or <i>Pardon me, that was the marmite and cheese panini repeating on me</i>. </div><div><br /></div><div>Apparently, they should actually call this attraction <b>The </b><b>Body Functions of London</b>. </div><div><br /></div><div><i>We had a great empire not so long ago</i> Smokey the Beefeater noted<i>. We should be proud of that. But we're not. Because we're British.</i></div><div><br /></div><div>It's true, they were British. <i>I love it here</i> said Cheez the Canuck <i>I've never been any place where people embarrass even more easily than me</i>. And he was right. At an event at the Victoria and Albert Museum, when a young hipster approached a craft table out of turn, I jokingly muttered <i>Orderly queue</i> under my breath--causing said hipster to apologize profusely and flee the room in mortification.</div><div><br /></div><div>They were such easy pickings, it was hardly worth mocking them. </div><div><br /></div><div>And yet, we did.</div><div><br /></div><div>More of which to be detailed in my next blog post, which at the rate I'm going, should be made sometime in July. July 2011.</div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-48183182192825829952010-04-17T18:39:00.001-07:002010-04-18T22:19:47.883-07:00Fooken Ayslund<span style="font-style: italic;">Maybe you should rethink that vacation</span> my doctor said.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Maybe you should rethink that vacation </span><a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2010/04/so-much-for-sit-down-comedy.html">physical therapists 1-4</a> said.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">No!</span></span> I said.<br /><br />I mean, just because I'd been having shooting pain down my leg for months, was no reason not to go on vacation.<br /><br />Because my squeeze the Cheez and I really need a vacation. A nice, romantic, just-the-two-of-us-and-the-millions-of-strangers-in-a-crowded-metropolis good time, the kind we haven't had in ages.<br /><br />It'd been hard enough to find nine glorious days when my work schedule and his work schedule lined up. Hard enough to get past the panicky arguments in the travel section of Powells over where we should go. Hard enough not to drop dead at the cost of booking airline tickets, let alone the B&B, with the dollar sucking as it does on the world market.<br /><br />Now that we'd done all that, nothing was going to keep me from going. Not searing pain. Not doctor plus physical therapist admonition.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">When are you leaving?</span> the doctor asked Wednesday morning, eying me in that M.D. means real doctor way they have.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">The day after tomorrow</span> I said, eying her in that Macaronimaniac means real maniac way I have.<br /><br />She scribbled something doctorishly illegible on a piece of paper, and told me I was about to meet Pearl. Magical Pearl.<br /><br />Pearl is so magical, not only could she read what the doctor wrote--but, upon reading it, she could get my deadbeat health insurance to approve a same-day MRI, and then magically schedule self-same MRI for within one hundred and twenty minutes of the time I stood before her.<br /><br />Which is how it came to pass that by the end of that very day, the neurosurgeon had joined the chorus urging me not to go on vacation.<br /><br />Something about a ruptured disc and a long flight and really who would want to go on vacation with Cheez when instead she could be having back surgery?<br /><br />But surely, back surgery wasn't going out of style. I mean, I could go on a wouldn't-it-be-loverly vacation, THEN come back to back surgery. Or so I figured, when I went to bed Wednesday night.<br /><br />Only to wake up Thursday morning to hear the nice man on the NPR saying something about a volcano in Iceland grounding all air traffic to Heathrow.<br /><br />Granted, all the pain killers I'm on are making me kind of groggy, but <span style="font-weight: bold;">volcano in Iceland</span>?<br /><br />People, it's got ICE right in the title. How much hot lava can there be, way up there?<br /><br />Enough, we now know, to screw me, the Cheez, and millions of others out of the pleasure of defying medical authority.<br /><br />Well, maybe not everyone affected was flying, or trying to fly, against doctor's orders. But still, it made me wonder when <a href="http://www.mythicalrealm.com/legends/pele.html">Pele the Volcano Goddess</a> joined HealthNet's list of Preferred Providers.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Icelandic volcano. What are the chances? </span>I wondered to my college roommate Little Orphan Annie, who'd spent eight hours the previous night <a href="http://abclocal.go.com/kgo/story?section=news/national_world&id=7387685">flying halfway to Copenhagen and back again</a>, thanks to Mount Nbdycnfrkinprounsit.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Slim</span> she answered matter of factly, sucking down what was clearly not her first martini of the day.<br /><br />Slim enough that when I told a co-worker, he responded <span style="font-style: italic;">Don't you mean, Greece's economy has failed, causing riots across Europe and that's why you can't go, because that at least is somewhat plausible.</span><br /><br />Of course, Greece's economy--and the rest of Europe's--is screwed in no small because of <a href="http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=126045483">the gross fiscal negligence of a certain other pseudo-European nation</a> that shall go unnamed. Unnamed because none of us can <a href="http://www.bbc.co.uk/dna/h2g2/A2181557">pronounce</a> any of its proper, or for that matter its improper, nouns.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It's been a hundred and eight-nine years since the damn thing last erupted</span> Cheez noted <span style="font-style: italic;">you'd think that would give them enough time to send out a press release.</span><br /><br />By Friday morning, we had both cell phones and an assortment of laptops fired up, trying to figure out if there was any chance of us going anywhere. Would all those hours spent poring over travel guides and boning up on Brit history by watching <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ObRtO6Ub_RU&feature=related">Anne of a Thousand Days</a> and <a style="font-weight: bold;" href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jaEn4C-EhTA">Mary Queen of Scots</a> be for naught?<br /><br />Well, at least the latter gave us enough appreciation for hard-drinking, hot-blooded Scotsmen to appreciate <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=34mHZgP9vkc">this guy in a Hooter's hoodie</a>.<br /><br />So that's what we're reduced to. Quoting a guy in a Hooter's hoodie. Which is what we do every day when we check the <a href="http://www.nats.co.uk/">NATS update</a> to see if there's any chance our rescheduled flight (for later this week) will actually take off.<br /><br />I suppose it could be worse. The volcano could have trapped us once we were abroad. Like <a href="http://www.vanityfair.com/online/daily/2010/04/john-cleese-versus-the-volcano.html">a certain someone who's probably done pining for the fjords after the flight ban left him to take a taxi home from Norway</a>.<br /><br />And I suppose it could still happen. The volcano could calm down enough for us to get to England, then kick up again, keeping us from leaving.<br /><br />Note to our cat sitter: we just laid in 140 pounds of litter. Have a great time while we're gone!<br /><br />Or all that Icelandic ash could just keep <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/interactive/2010/04/15/world/europe/airport-closings-graphic.html">pluming its way across Europe</a> like <a href="http://www.abbagoldeurope.com/Abba_Gold_Europe/About_Abba.html">an Abba cover band</a>. In which case, it's back to back surgery after all.Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-15759564642015451852010-04-12T18:07:00.000-07:002010-04-12T19:58:24.974-07:00So Much for Sit-Down ComedyWant a challenge? Trying saying <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Socks suck</span></span> ten times fast.<br /><br />Not enough of a challenge? Try doing it while putting on your socks--without sitting down or bending forward.<br /><br />Forget the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/File:Tegrin1964.jpg">heartbreak of psoriasis</a>. Welcome to the <span style="font-weight: bold;">suffering of sciatica</span>. Or, as my college roommate so helpfully put it, <span style="font-style: italic;">isn't that something our grandmothers used to get? </span><br /><br />That would explain all that time her grandmother spent on the kneelers at Our Lady of Perpetual Suffering. Because sitting pretty much is perpetual suffering, as in the most painful experience I can have, these days.<br /><br />The more comfortable the chair, the more it hurts. If <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom%C3%A1s_de_Torquemada">Torquemada</a> had access to Lazy Boys, he could have stamped out Judaism and Islam in about ten minutes, provided all the Semites were also Sciatic.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRz8Jar-XJlKCfGmrzJSY8YYWlLnZ3kUNfUiib4hFwcM0fESZ6YnjHEvAQjZtHNhefKjnlTYNuvQottf5xvNItvCKHzZt2WPpSAuVb6PCZp3NoUDsT7r3_8q8Dya0Nu9CVne1nxAy1gD3-/s1600/spanish_inquisition.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRz8Jar-XJlKCfGmrzJSY8YYWlLnZ3kUNfUiib4hFwcM0fESZ6YnjHEvAQjZtHNhefKjnlTYNuvQottf5xvNItvCKHzZt2WPpSAuVb6PCZp3NoUDsT7r3_8q8Dya0Nu9CVne1nxAy1gD3-/s400/spanish_inquisition.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459441782972468994" border="0" /></a>I have actually stood my way across America, on any number of commercial flights in the past several months. The worst was the one from New Orleans to Denver, because to quite literally add insult to injury, the New Orleans airport was bedecked with banners for the AAOS conference. You know, the <a href="http://www.aaos.org/education/anmeet/anmeet.asp">American Academy of Orthopedic Surgeons</a>.<br /><br />If only any of them had been able to get so much as a Swiss Army knife through airport security, I would have been happy to have them cut me open right there on the Cinnabon counter.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5dYEOlaQEW-GvDsSo1ceomSvlvZ3MqckZKhDEj7LmFmRsU6ccTzVnq7GSMMlRDwCjxBpnj8VyNNiQywfM-vRBYEx9_daJz-KNixFVT034zLWAjhbZgE8ZzSDZeShBeIsYJUV_NrKNM65W/s1600/surgerybon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 301px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5dYEOlaQEW-GvDsSo1ceomSvlvZ3MqckZKhDEj7LmFmRsU6ccTzVnq7GSMMlRDwCjxBpnj8VyNNiQywfM-vRBYEx9_daJz-KNixFVT034zLWAjhbZgE8ZzSDZeShBeIsYJUV_NrKNM65W/s400/surgerybon.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459431669943219506" border="0" /></a><br /><span>Then there was the hotel room in San Francisco. I mean, I'm sure it was just random coincidence that the staff put me in the disabled suite. Unfortunately, the disabled suite is for someone who can't stand up. Not little ol' Macaronimaniac, who can't sit down. Try crawling onto that low-riding commode without bending, I dare you.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">T</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;">hey make all sorts of accommodations for people who need to be seated. But nothing for someone who needs</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> to stand</span><span><span style="font-style: italic;">, </span></span>my friend Rachel commiserated<span style="font-style: italic;">. You should protest!<br /><br /></span><span>Which maybe I would, except that this is definitely not the week for me to hold a sit-in.<br /><br />Or even a lie-down. Sleeping hurts. Unless I take Vicodin <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> Flexeril, in which case sleeping is only mildly uncomfortable. And something I want to do twenty hours a day.<br /><br />Of course, everybody is being very nice. They are giving me all kinds of advice. Because being told what to do when anything you do causes deep physical pain, is apparently meant to at least relieve you of the need to decide which self-inflicted agony to pursue.<br /><br />Although some people swear by chiropractors, I have avoided them, believing they are generally considered to be quacks. Of course, I think the folks most likely to promulgate this belief are physical therapists.<br /><br />Physical therapists, I am learning, are quacks who assign homework. Basically, the PTs I have seen (a mere four, though I'm sure you've also got one to recommend) have banned me from yoga and bicycling and anything else I might want to do. And then they give me exercises that are suspiciously like yoga. Except prescribed by someone you pay a helluva lot more to than your yoga teacher.<br /><br />Then they ask whether I am better yet, and when I am not, they tell me I need to come for more physical therapy.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">We have you try something, and if it helps the pain, you keep doing it. If not, we try something else, </span>explained physical therapist number two, who I'm pretty sure was wearing a <span style="font-style: italic;">Wehrmacht</span> uniform under her Adidas track suit.<br /><br />I can't imagine how I would manage without this level of professional support. I couldn't possibly figure that much out on my own. Not as long as I'm holding onto this wet fork I've stuck into an electric socket.<br /><br />Which reminds me, someone did just recommend an acupuncturist she swears will do the trick.<br /><br />The most disturbing part of all of this is that nobody really knows what causes the pain. Supposedly, it has something to</span><span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_vNnuj7et2ZNTWSig5L9mE3fqdsLoorXNMGmxxqqRUfPrt-JnjKCtFngMMGLfXsd8ucgqHXQY6gOhB2uHroSke3uupFKJm0_2rrpgffrwOE_DLCJ_FT6eLZLQQzpEs0t8zK3ZHphHreN/s1600/donutspine.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 221px; height: 291px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiP_vNnuj7et2ZNTWSig5L9mE3fqdsLoorXNMGmxxqqRUfPrt-JnjKCtFngMMGLfXsd8ucgqHXQY6gOhB2uHroSke3uupFKJm0_2rrpgffrwOE_DLCJ_FT6eLZLQQzpEs0t8zK3ZHphHreN/s400/donutspine.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5459448104815637986" border="0" /></a></span><span> do with some part of my spine which can only be described through an analogy to <a href="http://www.medicinenet.com/degenerative_disc/article.htm#2whatis">a jelly donut</a>.<br /><br />So basically, the puff has gone out of my pastry. Leaving big gobs of raspberry filling all over my nerves.<br /><br />Not to mention gobs of toothpaste on my shirt front.<br /><br />I'm serious about the toothpaste. You try expectorating a mouthful of dentrifice without bending forward. Makes the socks seem like a walk in the park.<br /><br />And it's not like I can put anything in the washing machine, cursed low-water Euro-eco front loader that I have.<br /><br />So if you notice someone standing up on public transit, or lying down in the middle of a meeting, wincing so badly you can hardly make out her soiled shirt front, please come over and say hello.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-56662729683791911492010-02-28T10:26:00.000-08:002010-02-28T17:38:00.371-08:00Articles, Shmarticles. I Read It for the Pictures.Prepare yourself, gent(i)le reader, for what may be your first exposure to Jewish porn:<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgRkKKVhO3G7FRJTylJITbpW8YrKy3Ab__5T2ih84PxoJs6xZ8K-om5bvwWaXzTOnFs6q-X6hwpG1CxPeKsLuAgJQr-k4xNelOQzwG1ocHyKUWRPOxLx_n0dOr6FTJjocIAOwlC1Xzb_z1q/s320/IMG_4230.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443364082957914370" /><div>What is hotter than Glatt-Kosher Premium Angus Beef, fresh out of the oven, with a bissel kosher wine in soft focus at the edge of the frame?</div><div><br /></div><div>Welcome to my <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2008/01/that-time-of-month.html">second-favorite</a> magazine: <b>Hadassah</b>, named not for the wife of everyone's <a href="http://www.reuters.com/article/idUSTRE5B83ZG20091214">least favorite sell-out Demo senator</a>, but rather for the Jewish women's organization that finances hospitals in Israel by holding <a href="http://news.google.com/newspapers?nid=888&dat=19830421&id=dB8MAAAAIBAJ&sjid=9l0DAAAAIBAJ&pg=6970,5752601">fashion shows</a> and <a href="http://www.jewishtimes-sj.com/news/2010-01-29/Community/Shaloma_Hadassah_Sells_Mah_Jong_Cards.html">mah jongg tournaments</a> in every Hebraic enclave from Brooklyn to Boca.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because we Jews are all about values that matter. Like <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tzedakah">tzedekah</a>. And tradition. And ease-of-use.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuzUT8-LkOadO8YmmEf15H8gNmuWFBbiIA9eljY7Ip57opq_Oxqy6YsyadnjK8d3B3kpuF-1S0_bU1SoYh0CbeCvHYSZWCnjlvV_TQhqpN0uRPx5GcXjdKuZR30bLnxxqxxyQGiR-HUQdZ/s1600-h/IMG_4248.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuzUT8-LkOadO8YmmEf15H8gNmuWFBbiIA9eljY7Ip57opq_Oxqy6YsyadnjK8d3B3kpuF-1S0_bU1SoYh0CbeCvHYSZWCnjlvV_TQhqpN0uRPx5GcXjdKuZR30bLnxxqxxyQGiR-HUQdZ/s320/IMG_4248.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443368516808548850" /></a>Who doesn't love homemade gefilte fish <i>and</i> saving fifty cents (maybe even a buck if you go on double-coupon day)? Whenever I long for the sweet meatloaf of fish just like my beloved Bubbe used to make, what greater comfort than ad copy that mimics her broken English:</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9CCkSVURc4ClaewvzHjY9qkIzNLvAyzUoq55vfGK5gkcaqYNev6cwPR5fvyQH6TPXlAKZ_KHdA-Pj1Qs53bHrC12c7KEFjAvEMX3wyWw961PRhhknoyzWAO7P-9DA5nTLDTVTcgymhrnm/s1600-h/gefiltefishcopy.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 289px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi9CCkSVURc4ClaewvzHjY9qkIzNLvAyzUoq55vfGK5gkcaqYNev6cwPR5fvyQH6TPXlAKZ_KHdA-Pj1Qs53bHrC12c7KEFjAvEMX3wyWw961PRhhknoyzWAO7P-9DA5nTLDTVTcgymhrnm/s320/gefiltefishcopy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443370341301977218" /></a>Yes, the latest issue of <b>Hadassah Magazine</b> reminds me that it's time to start thinking about the <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2008/04/it-is-hard-to-get-excited-about-holiday.html">Passover Seder</a>, that special holiday meal we look forward to all year . . . </div><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4DCM7pSMOkn87VvgKfe5ikLRTl7essX0EkfKvhKnAaYrmjwx4d6kmaH2DJwzRuaON400StaQ78urpa3a_hE-kai02zDKLIonJhq0suD6EzhEm5AIhM6h4_C8vr2c4ipmdoTLmsWML0ix-/s320/IMG_4236.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443364823443327218" /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4DCM7pSMOkn87VvgKfe5ikLRTl7essX0EkfKvhKnAaYrmjwx4d6kmaH2DJwzRuaON400StaQ78urpa3a_hE-kai02zDKLIonJhq0suD6EzhEm5AIhM6h4_C8vr2c4ipmdoTLmsWML0ix-/s1600-h/IMG_4236.JPG"></a>and then try to rush through as quickly as possible.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now, I realize it's wrong to stereotype an entire group of people, to act as though millions of Jews are all the same, when in fact there is a rich diversity among us, as a casual skim of the magazine's ads reveals. </div><div><br /></div><div>For example, some Jews prefer this sort of Romantic/ceramic hideous style of Judaica . . . </div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wPn4em69-Kg9yM1lJLwPAH_KoQW_Ql_hGCUjk15cc34zF57reJBbPbv93AE1BYdZqHo6TcnTzzVlADHrJAfnraQIsvJI94rYpn2duRITcF7SqI5D4ievwq-drceS2bIaxzyHqJ2nZpjb/s1600-h/IMG_4227.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj8wPn4em69-Kg9yM1lJLwPAH_KoQW_Ql_hGCUjk15cc34zF57reJBbPbv93AE1BYdZqHo6TcnTzzVlADHrJAfnraQIsvJI94rYpn2duRITcF7SqI5D4ievwq-drceS2bIaxzyHqJ2nZpjb/s320/IMG_4227.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443364784249188066" /></a>while other Jews prefer the more lucid hideous of Lucite . . .<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDHA6LtDl6N51bYSxdE6VEsIUkvhoEAwehOgDiRDNqtuGgrV8R0MK8Xl1gGvlLZ-lPrMmIwpI7d0FodGIVsQZ2tf9MLDcROPL5lnlAG5GqVEGpIu5YJSiPHnoBOdNOGmR8OYtC93ljnE4r/s1600-h/IMG_4241.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDHA6LtDl6N51bYSxdE6VEsIUkvhoEAwehOgDiRDNqtuGgrV8R0MK8Xl1gGvlLZ-lPrMmIwpI7d0FodGIVsQZ2tf9MLDcROPL5lnlAG5GqVEGpIu5YJSiPHnoBOdNOGmR8OYtC93ljnE4r/s320/IMG_4241.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443367092837051362" /></a></div><div>Because it may be okay to break tradition, but g-d forbid you should break that glass cube commemorating Sarah and Jonathan's joyous union.</div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of break, what if, again g-d forbid, your elderly parent should break a hip? Fear not, as the fine advertisers of Hadassah offer any number of services for outsourcing the guilt, um, I mean the caregiving:</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQKcOUEQ5omBFGeb43hfNycqLioCWSHV3yNRpjmjQIvJJ8TjU0cfgMl0KT_U_MH7i4lPCLXMxDsaZp0CJ1TOLlkmosaFlnimDd5m2REIqhK84oh15arqF4uNJx4PYSkOMeg7lbHueNuXsn/s1600-h/IMG_4244.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhQKcOUEQ5omBFGeb43hfNycqLioCWSHV3yNRpjmjQIvJJ8TjU0cfgMl0KT_U_MH7i4lPCLXMxDsaZp0CJ1TOLlkmosaFlnimDd5m2REIqhK84oh15arqF4uNJx4PYSkOMeg7lbHueNuXsn/s320/IMG_4244.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443367505146338130" /></a><div>Although if your no-good offspring aren't willing to shlep down to South Florida to care for you themselves, even after all you've done for them, maybe you should take matters into your own hands. Because if they don't seem to care whether you're alive or dead, they certainly won't care once you actually are dead. But don't worry, because for a small fee, I mean generous donation, somebody will:</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjaFi3GauTx_FvsAzpRA_bH2VHaj8Pk-AM4nJwopP81mwt0RbbGYuVwuCMehEQUu9MsyemMm7iGRQpouoAEQSUJKkBmDUOF775P0BofoSQvTfU3W1nBrxB4-cRg9nDlKrAQLPxqY4ulbR1/s1600-h/IMG_4239.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjaFi3GauTx_FvsAzpRA_bH2VHaj8Pk-AM4nJwopP81mwt0RbbGYuVwuCMehEQUu9MsyemMm7iGRQpouoAEQSUJKkBmDUOF775P0BofoSQvTfU3W1nBrxB4-cRg9nDlKrAQLPxqY4ulbR1/s320/IMG_4239.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443367070225638098" /></a></div><div>Yes, this single issue of the magazine seems to offer everything a Jew could ever want. Where else can you shop for discount prescription drugs <i>and</i> support Eretz Yisrael?</div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-tcr0YbN_KvaddamJTDEVNLWlbShjl6ctc_PFXkoovLQBNmAX84S_qAJhQ0V-YMtppnIhXZhFDGtAm1DZcWekGzPFn_o3sVAYitPF8daU52YX8UFzuDrZjtrV7ZVcMDY7QRFW4TnuO6U3/s320/IMG_4243.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443367493537781714" />You'll be feeling so good and saving so much when you're downing that fabulous cocktail of prune juice and discounted Plavix and Flomax, you may even make it to the Holy Land yourself.<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaPWWx9EtcVHw39FgXI860hHNLNbnuyouinDbNl6gwaRYOaQ4bcQGsz8GbTBvYlXydPlmZswfoug2Qx1iZJ6RVyR0C9vFlepnrKWdxoFENJ6JY1zUd0-sHG8JanmxUVAYQGteEg8S1KboL/s1600-h/IMG_4246.JPG"></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaPWWx9EtcVHw39FgXI860hHNLNbnuyouinDbNl6gwaRYOaQ4bcQGsz8GbTBvYlXydPlmZswfoug2Qx1iZJ6RVyR0C9vFlepnrKWdxoFENJ6JY1zUd0-sHG8JanmxUVAYQGteEg8S1KboL/s1600-h/IMG_4246.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaPWWx9EtcVHw39FgXI860hHNLNbnuyouinDbNl6gwaRYOaQ4bcQGsz8GbTBvYlXydPlmZswfoug2Qx1iZJ6RVyR0C9vFlepnrKWdxoFENJ6JY1zUd0-sHG8JanmxUVAYQGteEg8S1KboL/s320/IMG_4246.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443367519931513042" /></a>After all, who would mind wandering the desert for forty years, with this handy fold-up scooter, delivered right to your hotel.</div><div><br /></div><div>Just imagine how excited the Cheez was about all the ads for trips to Israel I was leafing through. </div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmC68tf3QLmG_cdM3__I75vnCr7NLld8lL9v6VuncEgp_-jGekilr_-A2YbsCi6cahi50y8UOoZkInY1mBBlCK-O5oZmrwv-kZAgP2HJpOOABcy5Jct72LBKf2WaF_ClZz3KpHXIuQm1gx/s1600-h/hadassahtours.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 243px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgmC68tf3QLmG_cdM3__I75vnCr7NLld8lL9v6VuncEgp_-jGekilr_-A2YbsCi6cahi50y8UOoZkInY1mBBlCK-O5oZmrwv-kZAgP2HJpOOABcy5Jct72LBKf2WaF_ClZz3KpHXIuQm1gx/s320/hadassahtours.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443378901156165954" /></a>How unfortunate that we already have plans for the week of what promises to be a very memorable <b>See Israel with Hadassah and Song</b> tour. Because the question is not <i>how many times can one tour group sing <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hatikvah">Hatikvah</a>? </i>The question is <i>in how many different keys--at the same time?</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">Difficult as it is to choose among the Israel travel packages advertised, the real challenge is choosing among the ads for Jewish-themed retirement homes. They offer golf, tennis, beauty parlors, entertainment, and a reminder that for thousands of years, across every continent, there have always been certain constants of Jewish life:</span></i><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGsC5wXplmoVs2qy1HJw0BL3xVJrNYuJJERap5FifGUVLB2AQO26IqB0MtM5-plBGBAUIEx5yN7G6dMFn6rK4ygzQN4sdmrbgMwjeXMJ2OllKc6kPaR2Zt3Dp9May1lVU_4aUF8uht91-6/s1600-h/IMG_4228.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGsC5wXplmoVs2qy1HJw0BL3xVJrNYuJJERap5FifGUVLB2AQO26IqB0MtM5-plBGBAUIEx5yN7G6dMFn6rK4ygzQN4sdmrbgMwjeXMJ2OllKc6kPaR2Zt3Dp9May1lVU_4aUF8uht91-6/s320/IMG_4228.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443364096876345794" /></a></div><div>Namely, Torah, and male pattern baldness.</div><div><br /></div><div>Of course, if you're going to enjoy your Golden Years, you need the peace of mind that comes from knowing your children and grandchildren are flourishing. And great news, because once again the products available in the ads in this month's mag come through for you:</div><div><br /></div><div>Your daughter ...</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VeZ_JJYic0UxMJgO6ejIDwudwII8gfXQsgy0PFN6__Z1JAVH0d35hiscINOMwnJgX-21InGBid7DTdI5vc8N3z6ckQzaYmlA2YwqHNKMLluKEP0UW5-KfU2Q6UKoQ8MRniIOO485sCrU/s1600-h/IMG_4250.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5VeZ_JJYic0UxMJgO6ejIDwudwII8gfXQsgy0PFN6__Z1JAVH0d35hiscINOMwnJgX-21InGBid7DTdI5vc8N3z6ckQzaYmlA2YwqHNKMLluKEP0UW5-KfU2Q6UKoQ8MRniIOO485sCrU/s320/IMG_4250.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443368547355399666" /></a>may she marry a Jewish doctor!</div><div><br /></div><div>Your granddaughter ...</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGXwaEmzn6_E7H34ASw-Ic1fHmpaJZ_UNcI0AzTWErcxf3aM4-QwyrsZV8NWIWDKeIwVwQmxtWdPUthO6Vr3mgKAO9dzTtNNepjUYKQKgS9r8oV0OdyWVMJ8Iu-rWkBwb66z2TJxR3tr8z/s1600-h/IMG_4238.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiGXwaEmzn6_E7H34ASw-Ic1fHmpaJZ_UNcI0AzTWErcxf3aM4-QwyrsZV8NWIWDKeIwVwQmxtWdPUthO6Vr3mgKAO9dzTtNNepjUYKQKgS9r8oV0OdyWVMJ8Iu-rWkBwb66z2TJxR3tr8z/s320/IMG_4238.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443367060894365458" /></a>may she <i>be </i>a Jewish doctor (and believe me, the athletics is good for getting into a competitive college, and at least with the swim team there's no chance of a ball hitting her in the face and ruining that brand new nose).</div><div><br /></div><div>Your son . . .</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIJe1-77udpZDno6cANAjn24MaDoswIJ2G-31Nvs55CE3DwEMFBxH4RlUU6sjyzaT0JP-ziwjuSZZEW5BgohxNW6FzoX9qUIld2B4y3pPKggq_l-V1d53KnB_z0c9_tPq9syRxuQpJmxI1/s1600-h/IMG_4242.JPG"></a></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIJe1-77udpZDno6cANAjn24MaDoswIJ2G-31Nvs55CE3DwEMFBxH4RlUU6sjyzaT0JP-ziwjuSZZEW5BgohxNW6FzoX9qUIld2B4y3pPKggq_l-V1d53KnB_z0c9_tPq9syRxuQpJmxI1/s1600-h/IMG_4242.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIJe1-77udpZDno6cANAjn24MaDoswIJ2G-31Nvs55CE3DwEMFBxH4RlUU6sjyzaT0JP-ziwjuSZZEW5BgohxNW6FzoX9qUIld2B4y3pPKggq_l-V1d53KnB_z0c9_tPq9syRxuQpJmxI1/s320/IMG_4242.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443367100378087954" /></a><br /></div><div>may that zhlub at least stop chasing the shiksas long enough to read <b>Hadassah Magazine</b>.</div><div><br /></div><div>You never know, there might be something in there that interests him.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVBINLh2MniTsZl7Qg-fdFvljGCqamwGwU2DMKG6IbNaPwODF4rR5IfyX7eMn7wB0BEahGUpxcNwUIqnioBwahgTwX0hrKCAmK5seGBim1E3Q_WMHGWIzA6wVcVqq0OFQoRAhqbtJRhLa-/s1600-h/IMG_4252.JPG" style="text-decoration: none;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhVBINLh2MniTsZl7Qg-fdFvljGCqamwGwU2DMKG6IbNaPwODF4rR5IfyX7eMn7wB0BEahGUpxcNwUIqnioBwahgTwX0hrKCAmK5seGBim1E3Q_WMHGWIzA6wVcVqq0OFQoRAhqbtJRhLa-/s400/IMG_4252.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5443385481139701250" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjuh-Gp8YcGtqHPGh4Vv9FpWZsyE56kigRHWT6m0GLwVWoV6qJU4bbD6h8XFKxGa11b1-85zJB-HomRGOwWIkRrh3yMvPnHouzdkTKbQnMLggmM-9JFeF9UTCmaWF7SEBxXJFfoWBxvOCbc/s1600-h/IMG_4251.JPG"></a></div><div>Yes, blond Jewish triplets, born in Hadassah hospital to a Hadassah Magazine writer, now all grown-up and sporting their Israeli Air Force uniforms.</div><div><br /></div><div>I told you it was Jewish porn.<br /><br /><br /><br /></div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-91310652874287462172010-02-06T09:06:00.000-08:002010-02-06T10:48:45.929-08:00Schmaltz Across Texas, Part TwoIt's so nice 'n' romantic to keep a little mystery in the relationship.<br /><br />Our first morning in Houston, Cheez was indeed mystified by me.<br /><br />Specifically by my comprehensive knowledge of the lyrics of every song played on <a href="http://countrylegends971.com/lsp/index.html">97.1 FM Country Legends</a>, the radio station I found on our rental car radio.<br /><br />Okay, maybe hearing your girlfriend belt out the Oak Ridge Boys' <span style="font-style: italic;">Tryin' To Love Two Women </span>isn't exactly romantic. But when your full up on the Hyatt's continental breakfast, it puts you in the mood for something.<br /><br />First stop of the day: the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mark_Rothko#The_Rothko_Chapel">Rothko Chapel</a>. <a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWgSkh0l9_PvOWLQq8gTJa_AMbHveFT7lOjhtScohC4QerMCojTDC7hcH_XKqmrLS0bVkr122z2J6Ny93pREAPqjMZjWbpm54-pqN8OzctHqKbBJYblVFO-VJB9vzZlhkvnvChj5EmEvH/s1600-h/rothkochapel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 253px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjQWgSkh0l9_PvOWLQq8gTJa_AMbHveFT7lOjhtScohC4QerMCojTDC7hcH_XKqmrLS0bVkr122z2J6Ny93pREAPqjMZjWbpm54-pqN8OzctHqKbBJYblVFO-VJB9vzZlhkvnvChj5EmEvH/s320/rothkochapel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435180356240981730" border="0" /></a><br /><br />Which I have to admit, had me kind of confused.<br /><br />Mostly because:<br /><br />1) I could figure out where all the Rothkos were;<br /><br />and<br /><br />2) I didn't understand why they need so many acoustic panels in such a small room.<br /><br />So yes, I wasn't much of a fan of the Rothkos.<br /><br />Although I'll grant you that it's better than what they usually mean when they say <span style="font-style: italic;">We have a Jew hanging in our Catholic church.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHfPC1O0D2ubloAbn-YY_NJgpT6Jxs_WqGNIJ1uDinuAd4P4ya-yCGA7lQYDL9bk9ekGdmJ7p9pO6Gl2s9THA3rz4QmdxAHREDpfHXN8p1wFqzzu2KLAQU8UrmeGIoVhkGJDXFIk21KNSy/s1600-h/rothsteinchapel.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 261px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHfPC1O0D2ubloAbn-YY_NJgpT6Jxs_WqGNIJ1uDinuAd4P4ya-yCGA7lQYDL9bk9ekGdmJ7p9pO6Gl2s9THA3rz4QmdxAHREDpfHXN8p1wFqzzu2KLAQU8UrmeGIoVhkGJDXFIk21KNSy/s400/rothsteinchapel.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435184882213595586" border="0" /></a>Being a wandering, rather than a hanging, Jew, I was ready to ramble over to the Menil Collection, one of those lovely museums where rich people put all their stuff on public display for the edification of the masses.<br /><br />It was indeed very edifying.<br /><br />There was a three-foot-tall wood carving of a humanoid figure with long red hair.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">It looks like one of those Hawaiian totems</span> I said.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Or like a leprechaun</span> Cheez said.<br /><br />I squinted at the curatorial tag. Turns out, we were both right. <span style="font-style: italic;">Memorial figure from New Ireland, Melanesia</span> it said.<br /><br />How edifying is that? If it weren't for the Menils of Houston, I would never have learned there was any place to get a pint of Guinness and a plate of boiled cabbage is all of Oceania.<br /><br />The Menil also had a large exhibit of Surrealist works on display. But we hurried through that gallery. <span style="font-style: italic;">Surrealism doesn't really melt my butter</span> I noted to Cheez <span style="font-style: italic;">although I guess it does melt my clock.</span><br /><br />Next stop: the Museum of Fine Arts. Which was a focal point for our Texas trip, actually. Because they were having an exhibit of <a href="http://www.mfah.org/moon/gallery.asp">Moon Art</a>.<br /><br />Again, edifying. Such as footage of Mission Control during the moon launch. <span style="font-style: italic;">That is so amazing</span><span style="font-style: italic;"> </span>said Cheez, who has loved lunar landings ever since those long childhood days he spent reading old <span style="font-weight: bold;">National Geographic</span> magazines at his grandparents' house (note: Labrador is not a vacation paradise for nine-year-old boys. Or anyone)<span style="font-style: italic;">.</span><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You mean, that we really sent people to the moon and back? </span>I asked.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">No, that the guys who worked at Mission Control could smoke RIGHT AT THEIR DESKS! </span>he answered.<br /><br />Other learnings: eighteenth-century telescopes were made of cardboard. We had just bought a kaleidoscope for Cheez's nephew, on which we squandered an extra eight bucks to get a metal rather than a cardboard specimen. Turns out, we were robbed. We could have had a more authentic ocular device if we'd started with the core from a tube of toilet paper.<br /><br />We also watched this lovely 1902 French film, <span style="font-weight: bold;">La Voyage Dans La Lune</span><br /><br /><object height="344" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/sgJXnK64yyk&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/sgJXnK64yyk&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" height="344" width="425"></embed></object><br /><br />It was no <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2010/01/shmaltz-across-texas-part-1.html"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Panic in Year Zero</span></a>, but still it was the second best film of the trip so far.<br /><br />Doougie Rocker, PhD and Little Lord Portleroy<b> </b>had to wander off and leave us, because we were spending way too much time in the moon exhibit. Indeed, it soon became clear that though they are dear friends, we were not entirely perfectly matched traveling buddies, being as they are the sort of people that believe vacation should be leisurely and relaxing. Whereas I believe it should be crammed full of as much nuttiness as possible.<br /><br />Thus, after the museum closed, we agreed to all return to the Hyatt and freshen up before dinner. At which point Cheez and I doubled back to the Menil compound to see the separately housed Dan Flavin exhibit.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Can we take pictures in here? </span>I asked the guard.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">You're not supposed to</span> he answered <span style="font-style: italic;">but I can't be following people all through the building watching what they're doing.</span><br /><br />Given that it was 6 pm on a Sunday night and we were the only people in the entire facility, I realized he was not going to be taxing himself on our account.<br /><br />So here, without further ado, is the Flavin exhibit:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEG1IaCfIZ3wGdDBc6bLCOSphdbAOAt3wZd7YlhLL0M3g662IQq-079XY6tgYPv6dblZNki-DOP0IUj28QSCWn2W4Pu4yEePa6cjVJzLW1ae2PLlb5l_dPd5XaFh3TgQBW5gecnbZwxTbu/s1600-h/IMG_3286.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEG1IaCfIZ3wGdDBc6bLCOSphdbAOAt3wZd7YlhLL0M3g662IQq-079XY6tgYPv6dblZNki-DOP0IUj28QSCWn2W4Pu4yEePa6cjVJzLW1ae2PLlb5l_dPd5XaFh3TgQBW5gecnbZwxTbu/s400/IMG_3286.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435194587408506210" border="0" /></a>Unless of course you who are reading this happen to be a lawyer employed on behalf of the Menil Collection, in which case those brightly colored lights you're seeing are just part of the fabulous decor of <span style="font-weight: bold;">Tan Tan</span>, the Vietnamese restaurant where we had dinner.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLIZOElAPkwOLoAyzdWcVdrIrCspswGpIRzkaCViVmVf2NJlkB6ghXKR124GIMR8IyOkDyYM1WJeShXDK5Qn95jeF44UxXBCjbVjPtA4zM71KsEhugymYtBHoZi-UPqNsii2kcG0pa7H7-/s1600-h/IMG_3291.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjLIZOElAPkwOLoAyzdWcVdrIrCspswGpIRzkaCViVmVf2NJlkB6ghXKR124GIMR8IyOkDyYM1WJeShXDK5Qn95jeF44UxXBCjbVjPtA4zM71KsEhugymYtBHoZi-UPqNsii2kcG0pa7H7-/s400/IMG_3291.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435194595611969074" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7N1KUgz8OijFglMleouBl1yoSAY-9A5qmbRllHpJFKl_SpxHweZyBEOFVxIIwV-nFgyVUwbf2b8NSQQLn0f0lu_Zb-Go7gGBdnO_xh87MhSE9K6QN4I7RIMmHPOKfbv6xMjBcX5OTG-1Y/s1600-h/IMG_3297.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7N1KUgz8OijFglMleouBl1yoSAY-9A5qmbRllHpJFKl_SpxHweZyBEOFVxIIwV-nFgyVUwbf2b8NSQQLn0f0lu_Zb-Go7gGBdnO_xh87MhSE9K6QN4I7RIMmHPOKfbv6xMjBcX5OTG-1Y/s320/IMG_3297.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435202644100702450" border="0" /></a><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbMNEQNIanN7NOLs66gVNIa2kKIXoyySYNsBdQObwq5TTyHUTWkPinaHMyJTzxhd1A9KQzWskAXuSByWCkJvdiVgnupGe4oCy0Q5AKIirH-YKrOmq9KNPaAZ1WHzE30zHcl9NcPa4CydEx/s1600-h/IMG_3295.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbMNEQNIanN7NOLs66gVNIa2kKIXoyySYNsBdQObwq5TTyHUTWkPinaHMyJTzxhd1A9KQzWskAXuSByWCkJvdiVgnupGe4oCy0Q5AKIirH-YKrOmq9KNPaAZ1WHzE30zHcl9NcPa4CydEx/s320/IMG_3295.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435202635485215458" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpvHW_beHcjnksr-o9tsbgjrc-dDhvDR9cpahuIqFllzIRhXrU4RuF4g3bc_j10ibK-wfT3Rl1joP0KqyWciihQFlaKD5Laxk77KFhp0oVWwRwc0SQ_tOanQEbjpCKFhnkD4cziGoIyfe5/s1600-h/saltplum+soda.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; float: right; cursor: pointer; width: 146px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpvHW_beHcjnksr-o9tsbgjrc-dDhvDR9cpahuIqFllzIRhXrU4RuF4g3bc_j10ibK-wfT3Rl1joP0KqyWciihQFlaKD5Laxk77KFhp0oVWwRwc0SQ_tOanQEbjpCKFhnkD4cziGoIyfe5/s320/saltplum+soda.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435196823078026770" border="0" /></a><br />After a long day of fine art, who doesn't want to unwind with a refreshing Salt Plum Soda?<br /><br />Which, in case you're wondering, is a small bottle of soda water, which is brought to the table and then poured by the patron into a glass that contains a salted plum.<br /><br />Be sure to stir vigorously to distribute the salty plum flavor evenly!<br /><br />After eating a ginormous amount of delicious, deep-fried delights, we wandered around the neighborhood, taking in the neon-lit sights.<br /><br />The adjacent strip malls offered everything you could possibly ever want or need, from fashion to housewares to groceries to law enforcement.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJK8g1ctYsIiuJa-0l5g0942PmFwHYJiISiV8t9_vuoZzFA7OjC7Jek9JTIef0ASHUTKDsQ6BxfM5GC3snm-zBasj5b5w54QPOl2I6f6u3GQ05CjYTRZOAy_wKGkM2gDWXtznURxf0zGlD/s1600-h/IMG_3334.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjJK8g1ctYsIiuJa-0l5g0942PmFwHYJiISiV8t9_vuoZzFA7OjC7Jek9JTIef0ASHUTKDsQ6BxfM5GC3snm-zBasj5b5w54QPOl2I6f6u3GQ05CjYTRZOAy_wKGkM2gDWXtznURxf0zGlD/s320/IMG_3334.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435197808715478322" border="0" /></a>We couldn't quite figure out why Johnny Law needed quite so much wattage, until we wandered into the Asian grocery store and spotted this sign:<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjePqQU6GmDc97HwuAtL4usVfMKzQVdmhysBW8thY5LtP0inKRIreU_eaFfBZPi4-4lUk-K2hrEumUwEt7R-LyuvEtRziHcKOgiIuDMwUg__oFtasL9wTH89ZvzosJEH_6bMT1C_HwlSuwm/s1600-h/IMG_3308.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjePqQU6GmDc97HwuAtL4usVfMKzQVdmhysBW8thY5LtP0inKRIreU_eaFfBZPi4-4lUk-K2hrEumUwEt7R-LyuvEtRziHcKOgiIuDMwUg__oFtasL9wTH89ZvzosJEH_6bMT1C_HwlSuwm/s320/IMG_3308.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435197803443687042" border="0" /></a>In one form or another, this sign is ubiquitous throughout Texas.<br /><br />What a helpful reminder to bring only your LICENSED weapons with you when you run out to the store for that oh-so-adorably packaged squid or anchovy snack.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaf8HdsosTQQtUUfTi0axLPxjW4uhFdeUWD0VKX_NPlkrxJq9zJRK3-SKPkjdst79Ny1CGM_HedtsnPF6l__WqMegj6mPVP806EEiQRC8l8IYaMFtP8mEd9Ysj0-bA4XsMW38q9zzCTjaq/s1600-h/IMG_3324.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 150px; height: 200px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaf8HdsosTQQtUUfTi0axLPxjW4uhFdeUWD0VKX_NPlkrxJq9zJRK3-SKPkjdst79Ny1CGM_HedtsnPF6l__WqMegj6mPVP806EEiQRC8l8IYaMFtP8mEd9Ysj0-bA4XsMW38q9zzCTjaq/s200/IMG_3324.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435199837599142882" border="0" /></a><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ2ae08d50w_l6EBduzddxKMLrB4thf_g2R1Cnayi8OmqEMpc4SZJRRNMeNgATCJx6CS-WJmyi5lc97pS6b_pxCgHMH3ehi9ygPQoZ7NRzWRwketlSb1fPDPR-Y8WtUq6krScHwIygGzFr/s1600-h/IMG_3325.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhJ2ae08d50w_l6EBduzddxKMLrB4thf_g2R1Cnayi8OmqEMpc4SZJRRNMeNgATCJx6CS-WJmyi5lc97pS6b_pxCgHMH3ehi9ygPQoZ7NRzWRwketlSb1fPDPR-Y8WtUq6krScHwIygGzFr/s200/IMG_3325.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5435199846227032146" border="0" /></a>And so ended day two in Texas, with Oak Ridge Boys tunes in my head, art of all sorts amazing our eyes, and visions of salt plums dancing in my belly.Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-55573532028087737482010-01-24T11:29:00.000-08:002010-01-24T11:47:41.567-08:00By "Holiday Show" I Did Not Intend to Mean Groundhog DayOkay, it has been a while since I posted. Not for lack of thrilling content, I assure you. My life is just as filled with comedy-fodder as ever, I assure you. One thing you can count on is that I am laughable.<div><br /></div><div>It's just that laughable ol' macaronimanic has been having so many adventures, she's been hard pressed for time to blog about them. But in the spirit of no time like the present, no used crying over spilt blogs, no business like show business, etc.. let's get back on the hobby horse, starting with my holiday show, performed at Scratch PDX in December 2009.</div><div><br /></div><div>Note that the <a href="http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/goniff">goniff</a> who claimed to be a pro videographer apparently lacked certain skills such as focusing, sound editing, and correctly transcribing my name or the title of the act.</div><div><br /></div><div><object width="425" height="344"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/2cO5O2GKuAk&hl=en_US&fs=1&"><param name="allowFullScreen" value="true"><param name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/2cO5O2GKuAk&hl=en_US&fs=1&" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"></embed></object><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>So I'm sorry the video sucks, but the performance rocks. Please book me for your next performing arts festival, office holiday party,* or family simcha.**</div><div><br /></div><div>*I did actually perform this show at our office holiday party, and they didn't even fire me. I suspect out of fear I'd sue for religious discrimination. Careful when you hire a Jew, we all know a LOT of lawyers.</div><div><br /></div><div>**Yes, I can play <b>Hava Negila</b> and <b>Sunrise, Sunset</b> on the accordion. If I can just master Kool and the Gang's <b>Celebrate Good Times, Come On</b> I will have mastered the trifecta of bar/bat mitzvah musical entertainment.<br /><br /></div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-32063240789035891112010-01-17T17:27:00.000-08:002010-01-24T16:01:29.308-08:00Shmaltz Across Texas, Part 1My squeeze the Cheez and I always say we have so much fun together, we could go on vacation in a paper bag and still have a great time.<br /><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">This winter, we didn't go for some little lunch sack. We headed for a full on shopping bag, the shmancy kind with those little ropey built-in handles. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It's was a big bag we vacationed in. A big bag called TEXAS.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Jf_c2KO2ligGrtUQpDIl9pvN4iIMOPg6XepWdn9vIUT6eF9w3jo4NnxDhqe_u_yWL7b4TssNWITYusxExR92cUPHRo34ciiTVgG2JXuWbj-8H6rdV4gSW1QG7B2EUVk-_Zjeb9OqXrEs/s1600-h/dallas.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 255px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3Jf_c2KO2ligGrtUQpDIl9pvN4iIMOPg6XepWdn9vIUT6eF9w3jo4NnxDhqe_u_yWL7b4TssNWITYusxExR92cUPHRo34ciiTVgG2JXuWbj-8H6rdV4gSW1QG7B2EUVk-_Zjeb9OqXrEs/s320/dallas.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430410494764176994" /></a></div><div style="text-align: left;">So big, we couldn't take it on all by ourselves, so we invited some pals to join us. No, not Miss Ellie and JR, I meant a couple of real live actual friends:</div><div><br /></div><div>1. <b>Doougie Rocker, PhD, </b>everyone's favorite <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Sarah_Dougher">Riot Grrrl/Classics Professor</a></div><div><br /></div><div>2. Doougie's honey, <b>Little Lord Portleroy</b></div><div><b><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 206px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEI2Q0uPwv2NjgTDgdrAxC7sSSecamiZAdIj7S5uS2FIvxupZbxXlT7yiUFvJwyVEzK7SZtMHmuxdBCF2aIAQcSK3Ar1mOK6wJx-u245-7waBMpj_SWEltOcOZFOMDd93lRTxDd0xsYICx/s320/littlelordportleroy.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430401725874079794" /></b></div><div>As Little Lord P noted, we were ideally suited for this journey, representing North, South, East, and West. To wit: Cheez as the Northerly <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2008/01/comfort-flag.html">Canuck</a>; me as that exemplum of east coast, a New Yorker; Doougie as a native of the westward Oregon Territories; and Little Lord P heading up the South, having been raised in the Ozarks in a Doomsday cult that supported itself by BeDazzling the concert costumes of Elvis Presley.</div><div><br /></div><div>And to think, people believe the South is more f*ed up than other regions.</div><div><br /></div><div>Anyhow, we set off not to mess with Texas but to mesmerized by it. Cheez and I spent eight years in LA. We thought we'd seen all there was to see of the delicate intersection between big wads of cash and really tacky taste. But Rodeo Drive has got nothing on rodeo gaudy.</div><div><br /></div><div>I just asked Cheez for an illustrative example. He answered <i>I think that $170 leopard and rhinestone belt we saw in the store in San Antonio certainly counts as Texas Tacky.</i></div><div><i><br /></i></div><div>Actually, I disagree. I think it just counts as proof that Texas has so few Jews, people actually pay retail.</div><div><br /></div><div>So here is a recap of some highlights of the trip. I'm sorry if the recap is long(horn). Texas is big. There is an awful lot for me to mock.</div><div><br /></div><div>Day 1: Complimentary breakfast at the hotel:</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhspY9lMPAN2uBYKj_yDk4y0IMHPQhWnUnC1pG35ScgM8u6OLUHxk66-NDCJldOiktDwz4hGI_5GULsUTqUr_q4EyaE7lYV1A0LeB7_LM1teUVQpM_aAfxjX6pDNekBq7mKjtWHhq6DL5u4/s1600-h/IMG_0022.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhspY9lMPAN2uBYKj_yDk4y0IMHPQhWnUnC1pG35ScgM8u6OLUHxk66-NDCJldOiktDwz4hGI_5GULsUTqUr_q4EyaE7lYV1A0LeB7_LM1teUVQpM_aAfxjX6pDNekBq7mKjtWHhq6DL5u4/s320/IMG_0022.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430431893523224434" /></a>A Texas-sized vat of deep fried pig.</div><div><br /></div><div>And to think I said this was a goyim-heavy state.</div><div><br /></div><div>With that much bacon, it's more a heavy goyim state.</div><div><br /></div><div>Much to Doougie's despair, Little Lord P immediately embraced the Texan belief that everything is better with bacon. Even yogurt.</div><div><iframe src="http://www.chuckbarnes.net/Yogurtbacon.gif" name="Yogurt Bacon" width="500" marginwidth="4" height="375" marginheight="4" scrolling="auto" frameborder="0"></iframe><br /><br /></div><div>Once we had filled up, we headed out to the Modern Art Museum of Fort Worth. It's a gorgeous building filled with memorable pieces.</div><div><br /></div><div>Such as this room-sized sculpture . . .</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7dWfsfFjX5LjuY6YHlzgllXAaHMF5cx931nQDisBmVF-HE8g-abq5-OOKlMcXo5VgEnoCi2olupypiV0VMWIOTH5n5c6FHxtJ1HQeaFUG7cdirMGNAACw_7a1YHDHdk63wXDLoMytwWEd/s1600-h/IMG_3151.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7dWfsfFjX5LjuY6YHlzgllXAaHMF5cx931nQDisBmVF-HE8g-abq5-OOKlMcXo5VgEnoCi2olupypiV0VMWIOTH5n5c6FHxtJ1HQeaFUG7cdirMGNAACw_7a1YHDHdk63wXDLoMytwWEd/s320/IMG_3151.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430444806901832674" /></a>made out of mint-green candies.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_KSoHOI2MZMoTKHmtypIiqbxwyPBuRxdGin37VZcmKllpl5HKozvhZaa0I8WEzwsmLdI-S-1wq3H6tjexvB8fCzxON-t7l5PXWv2a8-vOQUhX9niKnyqeyO7FyGoDzeRyK94lsFlgtzvJ/s1600-h/IMG_3069.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh_KSoHOI2MZMoTKHmtypIiqbxwyPBuRxdGin37VZcmKllpl5HKozvhZaa0I8WEzwsmLdI-S-1wq3H6tjexvB8fCzxON-t7l5PXWv2a8-vOQUhX9niKnyqeyO7FyGoDzeRyK94lsFlgtzvJ/s320/IMG_3069.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430444798125917634" /></a><div>We're big fans of <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Found_art">found-object art</a>. But this was our first exposure to found-in-the-bottom-of-some-grandma's-pocketbook art. If the sculptor had thrown in a tissue with a blotch of coral-pink lipstick on it and a bus transfer from 1962, it would have been perfect. </div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEia6tXLouTo7QzQxzqeKNKgAhAmQrffePek0e0onSYmVMc0amXmo9W8aKD-6k46X1oQ9NMhF4N5_p9J3IbGPo3FcvZH6uMP77KHqREqEvrObTUjSax9UN3EFqLThevHsTlMzaXZH0189KoG/s200/IMG_3188.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430452882345713906" /></div><div>After leaving the museum, we happened</div><div>upon a once beautiful but now somewhat rundown art deco building.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We snuck inside to investigate. </div><div><br /></div><div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5pIZuiUnpGht-O3uLvqpL7tlAa8gkQNECnUQipNR5mrvnz2vRKUrqZ8I76Y1RVlJETukV7E-cgJaaWP9uLNbtDARnrnt5NGpFj3LFNxZtVthB_xT8UUkeGRoZAITXsk3QM2Krww-NC4F6/s200/IMG_3187.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430452887060290994" /></div><div>We made our way through ornate halls, poking into side rooms</div><div>littered with old box fans and duct tape-mended couches, until</div><div>at last we passed through giant doors labeled "coliseum," and discovered that we were inside the rodeo dome.</div><div><br /></div><div>And that, although there was no one else around, the soundsystem was playing full blast. And that the song it was blasting was <b>Barracuda</b>.</div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYHmh3dKAYCoLhrMeUit1r3uVAgylbEXoLal6Ynz5SDTFvk2y9bblpof29Is0TDhxJyFsFuS8w-g6wmkdxd1BM6E8qzmX7LYxi1SDNx_cBGo0y-XZES3b25N3vkgnxiFW2rOPL8-aGy66/s1600-h/IMG_3176.JPG"><img style="margin:0 0 10px 10px; text-align:center; cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 150px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEinYHmh3dKAYCoLhrMeUit1r3uVAgylbEXoLal6Ynz5SDTFvk2y9bblpof29Is0TDhxJyFsFuS8w-g6wmkdxd1BM6E8qzmX7LYxi1SDNx_cBGo0y-XZES3b25N3vkgnxiFW2rOPL8-aGy66/s200/IMG_3176.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430452896916413394" /></a><br />Because nothing says rodeo like decaying art deco and <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Barracuda_(song)#Catalyst">false rumors of lesbian love</a>.<br /><br /></div><div>And speaking of girls who like horses, our next stop was the Cowgirl Museum and Hall of Fame. Highlights included the following quotes from Hall of Famers:</div><div><br /></div><div><i>Who'd want a husband when you could have this wonderful horse? </i><a href="http://www.cowgirl.net/honorees/Mitzi_Lucas_Riley.aspx">Mitzi Riley</a> </div><div><br /></div><div><i>Of course, when you do as many things as I do, it takes a lot of outfits</i>. <a href="http://www.cowgirl.net/honorees/Fern_Sawyer.aspx">Fern Sawyer</a></div><div><br /></div><div>Basically, anyplace you can be down on marriage and up on outfits, is my paradise. I celebrated by galloping over to the gift-shop and purchasing myself a sweet little filly of a cowgirl hat, which to Doougie's mortification I insisted on wearing just about every place else we went in Texas.</div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5-5BJ_S5yruMRFMSoYfX4jCr13luxyw7sG5lXpeor-hXiYsI2UdRzXcMNuHi8ArRmUK90eoy-zZNMohueq_GtqvWFpfqBFtNU0c2BxMMjG8AWjoJ65AotxyhQ23V_cRAiZ-UPsRUagB2/s1600-h/IMG_3204.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhg5-5BJ_S5yruMRFMSoYfX4jCr13luxyw7sG5lXpeor-hXiYsI2UdRzXcMNuHi8ArRmUK90eoy-zZNMohueq_GtqvWFpfqBFtNU0c2BxMMjG8AWjoJ65AotxyhQ23V_cRAiZ-UPsRUagB2/s320/IMG_3204.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5430458018021479986" /></a><div>Full up on Fort Worth, we headed to Houston, checked into the Hyatt, and spent the evening watching <a href="http://www.conelrad.com/features/panicinyearzero/index.html">Panic in Year Zero</a>, which I can say without a doubt is the finest film about nuclear holocaust directed by and starring Ray Milland and co-starring Frankie Avalon that I have ever seen. </div><div><br /></div><div>And that was just day 1. </div><div><br /></div><div>More Texas-sized tales of terrific travel to come, I promise. Until then, settle back with some yogurt-coated bacon, and dream of all the open prairie has to offer . . . even if they are selling it at retail.</div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-80060664383313202962009-12-14T20:43:00.000-08:002009-12-20T22:23:41.556-08:00If You Make It Out of Ironic Materials, They Will Come. And Buy It. Maybe Buy Two, If You Will Cut a Deal.Get out your glue guns, hipsters. It's the most Portlandish time of the year.<div><br /></div><div>Gray and rainy and Craftywonderland!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>For all my out of town readers, Craftywonderland is, well, it's a wonderland of craft. Or more precisely, a Convention Center hall of hand-crafted wonders you can purchase to support some local artiste's PBR habit.</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>One of the hottest items was the Portland Bingo set.</div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiEdVjh1ADe_0T3P1bjI-2s6hyphenhyphenHJxbJwZWYxLwc9IUbQgVLq8HTF_OpTlzjTWw9rx_wT44vVOQgN-PzErjlt_CMh5rx1hyQMjET1pCztj_YzXb7LWJ_DumB2FuaslgRv7R9waFdzoCoH-cz/s320/IMG_2917.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415327697873254546" /><div>Actually so popular that it sold out at Craftywonderland, (though it will soon be available for purchase at <a href="http://www.powells.com/biblio/8-9781118114087-0">Powells</a>).</div><div><br /></div><div>Still, I was inspired enough I figured I'd play my own game of Portland Bingo as I made my way among the crafty wares.</div><div><br /></div><div>What to wear to the next kale sale down at the vegan co-op?</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD0_Kknbi_gzief-hQsp3gtTG9-vSkqAwU-0c2y14C9bFK1dW-87c785QhsV5CCwceWufE2xNfjL7RsNQ6qoT8VjJ3i8Qv-choDdhF2KDCTM-uXhhFNgPKk2t8z3ULVMlTVMdzCRez9sgR/s1600-h/IMG_2887.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiD0_Kknbi_gzief-hQsp3gtTG9-vSkqAwU-0c2y14C9bFK1dW-87c785QhsV5CCwceWufE2xNfjL7RsNQ6qoT8VjJ3i8Qv-choDdhF2KDCTM-uXhhFNgPKk2t8z3ULVMlTVMdzCRez9sgR/s320/IMG_2887.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415326159536603826" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Organic cotton and hemp stretch denim!</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">(Warning, could lead to one of those embarrassing <i>Honey, I smoked my stretch pants</i> incidents.)</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Speaking of functional objects out of favorite substances: </div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhADWiYfH4xZXqFsU3sUexDtbLph-PBbD-7tx696DkKbOmi2z9HfToj_t7xEk7Fv6HkcfgQv20RtANz9QWIY-b3MKFgFhoM1vLumQ8WhbjNe56H0ieERmkY1emmb29_jAA_BkdBVwer_143/s1600-h/IMG_2943.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhADWiYfH4xZXqFsU3sUexDtbLph-PBbD-7tx696DkKbOmi2z9HfToj_t7xEk7Fv6HkcfgQv20RtANz9QWIY-b3MKFgFhoM1vLumQ8WhbjNe56H0ieERmkY1emmb29_jAA_BkdBVwer_143/s320/IMG_2943.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417528693581839362" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Duct tape wallets. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>So Portland. So Portland 2004, actually. <i>Been there, stored my PBR money in that</i>, as the hipsters say.</div><div><br /></div><div>But wait, here's something new:</div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjM2raFIaZ3WcZfpYrAP2e1wZVCuuY0phfjvX1FmJZPa3RV_yQW54esm4yDBDDw0EyZeSdpus3kmfUhQUQL04Kp-iZ31CTdBdynia6RyepegKTM5VRlFWlI3HfuLwoQvZpMuzAQ92XpKz_J/s320/IMG_2944.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417520396622836802" /><div style="text-align: center;">Duct tape flasks. </div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div>For when you're a little too suave to swill down a can of PBR, yet still feel the need to keep your booze in a metal container.</div><div><br /></div><div>Notice that both the <a href="http://jduct.com/">duct tape wallets and the duct tape flasks</a> come in the ever popular mustache style.</div><div><br /></div><div>Because the FREE SQUARE on Portland Crafty Bingo must surely be the facial hair frenzy.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNu9OlSPEw5jtXEd7R2nm8DNB-fG-9OJJYa5r44ebwbB0tWrnlLv26B7hmfLisAKLTYCCvUZoMq9HAiizDxSeKRlJhBaJiH4lMPer5DC0qGC0BJPw8LO4csQ5yQ6xliLtBj0ipg-lI6Wxh/s1600-h/IMG_2894.JPG"><img src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjNu9OlSPEw5jtXEd7R2nm8DNB-fG-9OJJYa5r44ebwbB0tWrnlLv26B7hmfLisAKLTYCCvUZoMq9HAiizDxSeKRlJhBaJiH4lMPer5DC0qGC0BJPw8LO4csQ5yQ6xliLtBj0ipg-lI6Wxh/s320/IMG_2894.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415327261346229314" 0px="" auto="" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><i>Keep Portland Beard</i> cards.</div><div><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbO25_8o4o_1oWPmjiNPC9nACRYt7_Y8PxiJlQhAFJSlUhsPJk8QUMViITVW8b3Rgo-CcR8rGR8eYeymCkwFObd_zmBm09aktNRMLoHG6qSLSNNtaOUHQAngSPE_ZY5kmTQ7Uw8TUde2tA/s1600-h/IMG_2890.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjbO25_8o4o_1oWPmjiNPC9nACRYt7_Y8PxiJlQhAFJSlUhsPJk8QUMViITVW8b3Rgo-CcR8rGR8eYeymCkwFObd_zmBm09aktNRMLoHG6qSLSNNtaOUHQAngSPE_ZY5kmTQ7Uw8TUde2tA/s320/IMG_2890.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415326177382826850" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Fabric Mustache flags</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimaHwqb8_9EEVqYdAbNL0HWDcKwIWdjYZp7KCpCEmfrDY_6Oy0SfNCiDwojF0JNWSjf5KiuvZ5zpns7phvlR1yBkgiBVL-Lm5n8O-fU3H2cofiZFiV5UJeylX3sSCt1Yri1u0S2pgWu4vk/s320/IMG_2811.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415324752505116130" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Mustache ring </div><div style="text-align: center;">(note <a href="http://cheeseandmacaroni.com/f_objects.html">macaroni ring</a> included only as scale indicator, not for sale)</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAq9J-_1l1bMtWy0Y1vp1Ng3rxlLQWJMHRN0ORdCrjK1iQff8uJ2ihPqZyVmkjDWh6aDS5BhXFkja1BB8Fa9JQp5sEBV2KPex63ibR8Chpd3_tVnUr_1kpZV7QoHwlr_A8gXLiflkDmgvA/s1600-h/IMG_2801.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhAq9J-_1l1bMtWy0Y1vp1Ng3rxlLQWJMHRN0ORdCrjK1iQff8uJ2ihPqZyVmkjDWh6aDS5BhXFkja1BB8Fa9JQp5sEBV2KPex63ibR8Chpd3_tVnUr_1kpZV7QoHwlr_A8gXLiflkDmgvA/s320/IMG_2801.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415324744734761298" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://breadandbadger.com/shotglasses.html">Mustache shotglass</a></div><div style="text-align: center;">(for when you need to pour something out of your mustache duct tape flask to toast the bride and groom as they exchange their mustache rings)</div><div><br /></div><div>Here's a nice enviro-friendly art form:</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPlGgjheenpUPOdZZz3X2FNMNCEzE7LudFHWXjV-gxE1TpWQ0RjuxlBSVMnxacdNCti1Kgdm0tbBC9jWnP_gu2kjycfWqdwObBw6zWpiRZvzQm5DyCVlFSq6xOE48eDemOyu_hQvgePLMy/s1600-h/IMG_2809.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPlGgjheenpUPOdZZz3X2FNMNCEzE7LudFHWXjV-gxE1TpWQ0RjuxlBSVMnxacdNCti1Kgdm0tbBC9jWnP_gu2kjycfWqdwObBw6zWpiRZvzQm5DyCVlFSq6xOE48eDemOyu_hQvgePLMy/s320/IMG_2809.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415325155736627730" /></a><div style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://www.maplexo.com/">Recycled skateboard jewelry</a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Sort of a hair-of-the-dog potential here, what with slipping a skateboard bangle on that arm you've just broken doing a <a href="http://www.how2skate.com/tricks/144/Wallplant.htm">Wallplant</a> that came out looking like one of my dying houseplants.</div><div><br /></div><div>Christmas is coming up, so no surprise that the crafters are ready for Old Saint Nick. </div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKXKja6r9-7PRsiZqajmskMDVYs2Kb6XBey5TdIkuOeOqKwyHSor2kyeI3OnqsS0fH5kOJsJiBazlXHgr5XWdpp4z4m8e6GNorIDT2WrQ3l5LeQLnBD3RKKZgq9Wm9oCyB3cwgHR5lS4QR/s1600-h/IMG_2899.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKXKja6r9-7PRsiZqajmskMDVYs2Kb6XBey5TdIkuOeOqKwyHSor2kyeI3OnqsS0fH5kOJsJiBazlXHgr5XWdpp4z4m8e6GNorIDT2WrQ3l5LeQLnBD3RKKZgq9Wm9oCyB3cwgHR5lS4QR/s320/IMG_2899.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417531822825041234" /></a><div>Or perhaps that's more <a href="http://abeerforeverybody.wordpress.com/2009/07/20/old-milwaukee-lager/">Old Milwaukee</a>, given its hipster cred.</div><div><br /></div><div>Others hadn't forgotten that Jesus is the Reason for the Season.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitFmOYPoNM99KIeW6J8xojubO47daCg1qwze0_uQy4dtwZp92YWs1AJLH5WVdiaNKvEIyKVa5dJqy42lQT_mDh_PMIlmCgwZ9mTd3oIfk24dihukEMZg1D2G-PIhaET0bTTBTJTMjgHHT3/s1600-h/wtfwjd.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEitFmOYPoNM99KIeW6J8xojubO47daCg1qwze0_uQy4dtwZp92YWs1AJLH5WVdiaNKvEIyKVa5dJqy42lQT_mDh_PMIlmCgwZ9mTd3oIfk24dihukEMZg1D2G-PIhaET0bTTBTJTMjgHHT3/s320/wtfwjd.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417532381932081858" /></a><div>Our friend Rachel B. picked up some hedgehog notecards for her stepmother, who apparently loves all things hedgehog. Alas, it's a pity Rachel didn't see this in time.</div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF_ubZ2rs9I92sTQzDentj3yg7V7LXuZrx2PHU7KqykruRhoOk1hNHkWpBqFGdcSZ04KopemAImdTIKljdED_I5doIoVEeYWR9awNve9FOeU7DG9do1nJ3bSznMcDhMWUUXh5es7Z7geF2/s1600-h/IMG_2960.JPG"><img style="" 0px="" auto="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF_ubZ2rs9I92sTQzDentj3yg7V7LXuZrx2PHU7KqykruRhoOk1hNHkWpBqFGdcSZ04KopemAImdTIKljdED_I5doIoVEeYWR9awNve9FOeU7DG9do1nJ3bSznMcDhMWUUXh5es7Z7geF2/s320/IMG_2960.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415328066195880706" /></a><div>Because nothing says, <i>Happy Birthday Prince of Peace</i> like the hedgehog brass knuckles.</div><div><br /></div><div>If only her stepmother were actually a man, she might have picked up this lovely set of gay man's fantasy potholders.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge8W5vTcvlEC5ohcZHFf0Bok6DAZZOeVvPIYqNNCS8WChtaA9qOodzzsXnhA0Bd2Ht12lsl_ZHd52hyphenhypheniLhly5sqoTyvkI19CBB1UgeYmgODQ8RQhPxKd49Fi5gSmacT-CwekAI1wUuUBl5/s1600-h/IMG_2838.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEge8W5vTcvlEC5ohcZHFf0Bok6DAZZOeVvPIYqNNCS8WChtaA9qOodzzsXnhA0Bd2Ht12lsl_ZHd52hyphenhypheniLhly5sqoTyvkI19CBB1UgeYmgODQ8RQhPxKd49Fi5gSmacT-CwekAI1wUuUBl5/s320/IMG_2838.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417561199229390354" /></a><div>Potholders were in surprising profusion at Craftywonderland. Though as Cheez observed, they did not seem to hold the kind of pot the majority of the crowd seemed most familiar with.</div><div><br /></div><div>Among my favorite items were the <a href="http://www.bellasisters.com/">beautiful old suit jackets that had been remade</a> into what I like to think of as Portland's sartorial take on <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mullet_(haircut)">the mullet</a>.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__Sck8nK4GPbTckONVbgpNIQf7dkQZNrSlf97Q6xU2ILpFaFfatJcpdp8-22TUOOuTjjKLBeh9LbwL0pvcNR3oV10_jGzL2hvoYJ0mdhnhmEimLoYuZw5H3TGDiZh0YWxZzNlVXGdT0RP/s1600-h/IMG_2833.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj__Sck8nK4GPbTckONVbgpNIQf7dkQZNrSlf97Q6xU2ILpFaFfatJcpdp8-22TUOOuTjjKLBeh9LbwL0pvcNR3oV10_jGzL2hvoYJ0mdhnhmEimLoYuZw5H3TGDiZh0YWxZzNlVXGdT0RP/s320/IMG_2833.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417536793713784338" /></a><div style="text-align: center;">Business up front</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaE5wNohN9HKfsNF4wraJdBD9uDqWxRYmRu_8J3i9DFpfSuI3GhCEs6EzkLvNYJMxZ3BCYYh7N6UFaIh1q0tB__He89TqdXbX5ZI20pe1Sjk1rQQ8_DyAe5WZD9Xh6kC6JW-o1CdasZo1J/s1600-h/IMG_2835.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgaE5wNohN9HKfsNF4wraJdBD9uDqWxRYmRu_8J3i9DFpfSuI3GhCEs6EzkLvNYJMxZ3BCYYh7N6UFaIh1q0tB__He89TqdXbX5ZI20pe1Sjk1rQQ8_DyAe5WZD9Xh6kC6JW-o1CdasZo1J/s320/IMG_2835.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417536801405549362" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">Hoodie in the back</div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">There was a lot of working with recycled materials. Old Sony Walkmans made into bookends. Old books made into journals. Old beer caps made into</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRVEKpSUNnJ-5UrSaiQhp-jIfDKkdSpf5UomMcxg-yq09WBycmj4vB0k6ribOcujPs1pb_iFyyatYb9r0GPZNrGSt4QtvPDUi42LccjfBzc_gkWrT25yzCZDaUkM4uZIRJ6WWScZRGA9k/s1600-h/IMG_2918.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghRVEKpSUNnJ-5UrSaiQhp-jIfDKkdSpf5UomMcxg-yq09WBycmj4vB0k6ribOcujPs1pb_iFyyatYb9r0GPZNrGSt4QtvPDUi42LccjfBzc_gkWrT25yzCZDaUkM4uZIRJ6WWScZRGA9k/s320/IMG_2918.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417565067391180514" /></a><div style="text-align: left;">well, I actually have no idea what that is they were made into. But dude has figured out how to deduct his beer purchases as business supplies, that's pretty artful right there.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And for those of you who are ready to ditch your old-fangled duct tape wallet, may I recommend the latest in nostalgic materials recycled into a moneymaker, er I mean money holder:</div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiJQsV4HyGxzyCWguWZzk5sAHRg91gdKDuB-aN_ruvikR0mw9BngDflqMSJVBnxlYSNdykFxaOvUH66Bh2IF7RGOnUApJbmdRdLH86vGgYgosPt5VEFnpDqhTXwdhyphenhyphenRWjiCVDRwtbPWfofh/s320/IMG_2863.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417565794371120930" />The lawnchair webbing wallets. Note that the display stand included actual photos of lawn chairs<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYvadmRoNhwICzOaX_S7YxpVnoljpo29C6noGgmo_l7c807zNsmpXeu4G0k7KuA_qK3fuPt3Csd6QKC6YnM1SnVNtOQLdm9ihd9bPRlMzeKwzp23gHmZxUgldX9iQciIuzhyKJYSWkg-Bd/s1600-h/IMG_2864.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjYvadmRoNhwICzOaX_S7YxpVnoljpo29C6noGgmo_l7c807zNsmpXeu4G0k7KuA_qK3fuPt3Csd6QKC6YnM1SnVNtOQLdm9ihd9bPRlMzeKwzp23gHmZxUgldX9iQciIuzhyKJYSWkg-Bd/s320/IMG_2864.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417565800188605794" /></a><div style="text-align: left;">presumably because the twenty-somethings cramming the sale had no firsthand knowledge of such things. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">It does make you think. What 70s decor item can't be recrafted as 2010 fashion, when you get right down to it. <i> <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; ">Those plastic covers my parents still have on their sofa? Peekaboo robe to go with the shag bikini cut out of the living floor treatment. <i>Stick a fondue pot on your head and call it macaronimaniac</i>, as the old song says.</span></i></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal; "></span></i>They really had decked the convention hall with boughs of 70s nostalgia. This <a href="http://velvetjuanita.blogspot.com/">lovely velvet painting</a> of an AMC Pacer, for example, was going for $100.<br /><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYr9ogaeX0hWHIckatTHLeH0CiwK6An0x0MPrR0I9_2yq4VxOaPWpUtgDhu6PCNhDlEv8TGhfKRFzyf27PhV3MU_FPEz-LDJUyP-s7jycSL4DT8J_mxNI_lPTDholomW0XMUR1AJeazHSM/s1600-h/IMG_2900.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYr9ogaeX0hWHIckatTHLeH0CiwK6An0x0MPrR0I9_2yq4VxOaPWpUtgDhu6PCNhDlEv8TGhfKRFzyf27PhV3MU_FPEz-LDJUyP-s7jycSL4DT8J_mxNI_lPTDholomW0XMUR1AJeazHSM/s320/IMG_2900.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417534087689341346" /></a>Which is probably more than the Kelly Blue Book value of the Pacer itself.</div></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The ultimate Portland moment, though, was when I spied this vendor on the crafty kids aisle:</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyoN6GLqb0THcizXS1AURxlI5ExcGBeImG9jNn0tnMGh9CuR5ajZi46mou6G5IkbcL75bK0Drad71zng3moKMdtBV6xvEB2PmXAKm_wxuXoGi_T8fXgMwEn4Ekkv1Cbl9SFH3fHblHPMF/s1600-h/IMG_2823.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiXyoN6GLqb0THcizXS1AURxlI5ExcGBeImG9jNn0tnMGh9CuR5ajZi46mou6G5IkbcL75bK0Drad71zng3moKMdtBV6xvEB2PmXAKm_wxuXoGi_T8fXgMwEn4Ekkv1Cbl9SFH3fHblHPMF/s320/IMG_2823.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417562138377563058" /></a><div style="text-align: left;">Yes, at nine years old, he's already sporting the airbrushed trucker's cap, churning out ironic artwork, and exuding aloofness at the presence of shoppers. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Best of all, just moments after I snapped this shot, he began unconsciously playing air guitar to the song blasting out of the nearest speaker. Which, in the true spirit of the holiday season, was <b>Don't Fear the Reaper.</b></div><div style="text-align: left;"><b><br /></b></div><div style="text-align: left;">A lovely sentiment, though perhaps not as apt as the one of which I had to remind our pal Cynthia and her daughter Jackson, who were fleeing the Convention Center after being traumatized by the Craftywonderland crowd: <i>Don't Fear the Hipster</i>.</div></div></div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-41374280841540452742009-12-10T20:26:00.000-08:002009-12-10T21:25:06.202-08:00"Holy Moses" Does Not Refer to an EpiscopalianTis the season.<div><br /></div><div>The season to assume everyone is Christian.</div><div><br /></div><div>Including, apparently, <a href="http://latimesblogs.latimes.com/unleashed/2009/12/jesus-saves-cows-connecticut-calf-born-with-cross-shaped-marking-to-be-spared-from-slaughter.html">farm animals</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>I can kind of understand certain right-wing news outlets gloating like a <a href="http://www.fox11online.com/dpp/news/strange/holy-cow-divine-bovine-born-on-farm-jgr-1260360798669"><b>Fox</b></a> in the cowhouse over this weird story, but when <b>NPR</b> and the <b>Jew</b>, er I mean <b>New</b>, <b>York Times </b>cover it too, what is up with that?</div><div><br /></div><div>Cows are not Christian. </div><div><br /></div><div>Particularly not cows named Moses Holstein. </div><div><br /></div><div>Trust me, Moses Holstein you can pretty much count on being a member of my herd. Er,I mean tribe.</div><div><br /></div><div>Pardon me if I'm a bissel oversensitive. This is a tough time of year for the Jews. On the one hand, sales. We love those. On the other hand, everyone saying "Happy Holidays," for a good week past the end of Hanukkah. Like maybe we Jews aren't going to figure out that "Holidays" is code for "birth of our Lord Jesus Christ." </div><div><br /></div><div>Who by the way, as a Jew, would have loved all these sales.</div><div><br /></div><div>Though maybe not so much the ham dinner you're planning on serving on his birthday.</div><div><br /></div><div>Actually, I'm not sure what's more horrifying to me as a Hebe: </div><div><br /></div><div>That most Americans believe everyone--including some randomly birthmarked bovine--is a Christian. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or that the one goy sticking up for us Jews is . . . <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/09/us/politics/09hanukkah.html">Orrin Hatch</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, <i>that</i> Orrin Hatch. Orrin G. Hatch, the Mormon senator from the state of Utah. Don't get me wrong, I have nothing against Mormons per se. Frankly, I think we crazy desert religions ought to stick up for each other. </div><div><br /></div><div>But this is just plain weird, this Hatchnukkah song. Dude has got a thing for Jews <a href="http://cornellsun.com/section/opinion/content/2009/12/02/so-you-have-yellow-fever-%E2%80%A6">like that pasty white guy in your dorm had a thing for Asian chicks</a>. </div><div><br /></div><div>We all know goyim don't write Hanukkah songs. It's unprecedented. Unnerving. Unnatural. </div><div><br /></div><div>So please, let's give up this sick, twisted, immoral lifestyle, Mr. Mormon Senator from Utah, and go back to the way it was meant to be.</div><div><br /></div><div>With <a href="http://www.interfaithfamily.com/arts_and_entertainment/movies_theater_tv_and_music/The_Jews_Who_Wrote_Christmas_Songs.shtml?rd=1">Jews writing Christmas songs</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Not to mention Jews singing them. </div><div><br /></div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiH1j0C1ZKCruU_sT-jiJVWlqyDkKakOBfWfqTGgsSThrqhPMDa6bNZksEOfVO8BTV2qXuNq9hIkV-8wroapiHvt22b4wEdFPQhUEHPvFXujU7ZoDtYIrw7YwbbtVyOWVJ5BzR1m1prJ4uL/s320/Neil_Diamond-The_Christmas_Album-Frontal.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413842088537831058" /></div><div style="text-align: center;">Neil Diamond, double platinum, your mother must be so proud!</div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEipVNY-bTVbq9TpnegYB_X3BzrDsTHf1xez7U3nm5imB78_KhklDFfXdFk9IRmoSN5ZCRMQ3jZXrpYVLaK6kzJ51crLvh3PjHCIvXIuxgiVkGE80ZbCgLuNYN9888Z7OwpvroreBIiBeioC/s320/bettemidlercoolyule.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413842078875096290" /></div></div><div style="text-align: center;">Bette Middler, Grammy-nominated, mazel tov to you!</div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlSdSEnYLdK0vhyrzYlB79LbiAL9SCb5Y2cv5_5dpyR7LHO8MapJuPU9NtAiMWYnrj6lT16V0YXFGfh3nwyogaBjhbNiaclrZ4Ab2mJZ0904EXIqL95KFbZNpgaRkq7q6xKj7VemHwT2Gc/s320/IMG_5895.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5413842103519770738" /><div style="text-align: center;">And me! </div></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Yes, dear readers, Macaronimaniac will be belting out the Christmas songs and the Hanukkah spiel<a href="http://us1.campaign-archive.com/?u=cf13d47544aba5c9c69fb1c29&id=b008623645"> this Saturday night</a>. I hope you can come see me.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Just please leave your half-breed, Hebe-named Holsteins at home.</div><div> </div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-9189756414536080932009-12-02T20:52:00.000-08:002009-12-02T23:42:07.889-08:00Thanksgiving Myself Agita Worrying For No Good ReasonThanksgiving is my favorite holiday.<div><br /></div><div>So of course I start worrying about it well in advance.</div><div><br /></div><div>By last Tuesday, when the Cheez and I had actually started on our road trip to San Francisco, where we have spent every Thanksgiving since 1992, I was in full on panic.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Carol is coming this year</span> I pointed out to Cheez, meaning our friend Katie's mother. This is shocking because though she is invited every year, she always declines. Something about not wanting to see her adult offspring in lingerie.</div><div><br /></div><div>Oh, yes, I guess I should mention that in addition to spending every Thanksgiving since 1992 in San Francisco, we have spent every Thanksgiving since 1995 in lingerie. </div><div><br /></div><div>Trust me, it cuts down on the unwanted relatives at the dinner table.</div><div><br /></div><div>At least it did until this year. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">This is just like <a href="http://www.viamagazine.com/top_stories/articles/burning_man01.asp">when the AAA magazine ran the article on Burning Man</a> </span>I moaned, my complaint shrilling out like an RV tailpipe dragging along the hipster-encrusted desert. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">It means it's all over.</span></div><div><br /></div><div>Then, as we were holed in the Motel 6 in Redding, we realized Cheez had forgotten to pack his Farrah Fawcett wig. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">How can you have Thanksgiving in your regular hair? </span>I wailed. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">You might as well be sitting home with a Tofurkey sandwich. </span></div><div><br /></div><div>But by the next morning, things dawned brighter. Or so it seemed when I discovered that the gas station across the street from the Motel 6 sold <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2009/03/its-only-funny-until-somebody-loses-eye.html">souvenir spoons</a>. $6.99 later, I knew I was really on vacation. </div><div><br /></div><div>By Wednesday night, we were firmly ensconced in <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2009/10/mishpucha-at-movies.html">Little Orphan Annie</a>'s flat in the Lower Haight, with all eight of our Tgiving pies baked.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">What the hell are we going to do with ourselves tomorrow morning? </span>Little Orphan Annie wondered. </div><div><br /></div><div>She panics about Thanksgiving even more than I do. </div><div><br /></div><div>I reassured her that we could use the time to pay fitting tribute to the Native Americans to whom we Haole Americans owe our earliest Thanksgiving. AKA the ones from whom we stole this great land. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which we did by riding down to the bison paddock in Golden Gate Park.</div><div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgoHRfXCa-MJtnEkLeQXsG0b9-ohYSxZhfRwgqmK4dP1OiE3u_eq0l4OkQiu_LAIYBs32_WGd0mOMaQ_TrrLmJaUSAsGKOTwZ8pTNntkT70gc8yrlDPMIrexgdTslyQ0xnZIMQy-BWSuMfn/s320/IMG_2457.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410888495739389794" /><div style="text-align: center;">Herd of bison in the park.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh-87DX7PPfTVFRiZkp5V5c7zvijOtQJvc_lpEr0VVHdyNfhIBwE9En5gdSq5_HE7bB6D6866jicNS26dmk7T0p51B07wH5-xneihCFJXnTO0S4slHthLt-fUKLyYYWqQihPUH5VrKpu7Ad/s320/IMG_2463.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410888505012534562" /><div style="text-align: center;">Herd of bicycles in the park.<br /></div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Things were definitely looking up. Little Orphan Annie lent the Cheez a replacement wig that not only clashed admirably with his made-by-Victoria's Secret-but-actually-purchased-at-Goodwill holiday outfit . . . </div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVI89EXnMomjcJWof7MfN4wnMcgGZ3_eKHKo6qWsBj0rQz-ULgY8BinCpH3gNb32y9-f2bch5a1jlsIG7Z5SO1DK-TxLhmh-Q6eWGnGf_OhRcBrYyqB7Aq7GbbvWRlQBQ68D2blVr3EpA0/s1600-h/IMG_2496.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVI89EXnMomjcJWof7MfN4wnMcgGZ3_eKHKo6qWsBj0rQz-ULgY8BinCpH3gNb32y9-f2bch5a1jlsIG7Z5SO1DK-TxLhmh-Q6eWGnGf_OhRcBrYyqB7Aq7GbbvWRlQBQ68D2blVr3EpA0/s320/IMG_2496.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410892474162921714" /></a><div style="text-align: left;">. . . it also made him bear a striking resemblance to everyone's favorite <a href="http://www.lyricspond.com/artist-nana-mouskouri">Greek singing sensation.</a><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-5Ht_tGwv2FiK8ZrQwnFQJX2Yxzi64Cs7u4fbGpySTkD1JYwQ0ZVJGPf0o1ydcRA6hxJdTiuVrEm8g9THiycxaov78IMotT7go2ttszGBDJDw58E8oK9JhnmeL_GPx2RGMzfhtO4x7cDu/s1600-h/cd-cover.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 318px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-5Ht_tGwv2FiK8ZrQwnFQJX2Yxzi64Cs7u4fbGpySTkD1JYwQ0ZVJGPf0o1ydcRA6hxJdTiuVrEm8g9THiycxaov78IMotT7go2ttszGBDJDw58E8oK9JhnmeL_GPx2RGMzfhtO4x7cDu/s320/cd-cover.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410892465226152354" /></a><div style="text-align: left;">Now our only worry was how to get us, eight pies, a guitar, an accordion, a salad, half a case of wine, and enough cheese to stink up the entire state of North Dakota from Little Orphan Annie's flat in the Lower Haight to Katie's house in Bernal Heights.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMpV-hK7PT88SntAeeOwRZOuK6L9LaVyYaGWxNVmmXfmKvZ51dCp5UhShl0XXBd9RLV2i1YnleBML7QvvwqtVZpHW2IOcY_Wr35WOntiaiVSSR-2L0A7fp43MdUTEjwYezZtNVGKa-HO2v/s1600-h/IMG_0042.JPG"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMpV-hK7PT88SntAeeOwRZOuK6L9LaVyYaGWxNVmmXfmKvZ51dCp5UhShl0XXBd9RLV2i1YnleBML7QvvwqtVZpHW2IOcY_Wr35WOntiaiVSSR-2L0A7fp43MdUTEjwYezZtNVGKa-HO2v/s320/IMG_0042.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410895198777241762" /></a><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div>The trunk of the Prius being suPIESingly roomy, everything seemed on the level as we left the Haight.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP1kNNCyDi3Qp9k56ice_nqoyPfljNDWHr5kP0yg_f57sp52kGOPB5DFVCVz0uYOJQ5tuyvlpDEyORVrtVoS6yrzQG27OKeyYZ2CJ6bM3mzHeugrRSM9tB7HPCvHWz5I5ZKQns-j-iXDl_/s1600-h/IMG_0056.JPG"><img style="float:right; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjP1kNNCyDi3Qp9k56ice_nqoyPfljNDWHr5kP0yg_f57sp52kGOPB5DFVCVz0uYOJQ5tuyvlpDEyORVrtVoS6yrzQG27OKeyYZ2CJ6bM3mzHeugrRSM9tB7HPCvHWz5I5ZKQns-j-iXDl_/s320/IMG_0056.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410895190625164946" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">But I was INCLINED to believe things might be compromised, or really compropiesed, when we popped the trunk after parking the car up on the Heights.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Or at least, half the car was parked up on the Heights. The other half was rather far down.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">We were greeted by our co-hostess with the mostest, who seemed oddly ready to play some Live Action Role Playing game.</div></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhp8HIj0YtaH_bR3JE0YeyxJAnlsx6EwTHacjErAWjJo2N7BJS6SOg7Y3GCw8v31u6aEP4SACvni5tQcSwCrZYY3z-FcyJZGvDnuTmonjp47ktLn0c1bN_BlARGUWtfJ_-SgEXCcXZHeXfq/s320/IMG_2520.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410900831010080258" />Very oddly. <div><br /></div><div>Ever since the breeders among us have started reproducing, I've been keeping close tabs on the queers to kids ratio for Thanksgiving. But according to Katie, this year it was going to be a shut out.</div><div><br /></div><div>I couldn't quite imagine a what a No HoMo Lingerie Thanksgiving might mean.</div><div><br /></div><div>But of course, I'd forgotten that drag queens and five year-old girls are virtually interchangeable. </div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiagbD4FCmJBNqMzrSlWcGfHaxsfXGLNjrTwfT-B1wcp36VjEI3ihhA-RndyvEVQV_fMBzpvQl0TmQggPpWiFLyAe3eLXncJZ4cWA9UQ3LmCDOHD6YHu3GVD2xeWbyhU_MPSYGMXP7ZoQtm/s320/IMG_2519.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410900822535412866" /><div>Here is Katie's daughter, unwittingly proving that preK can also be pretty queer. <br /></div><div><br /></div><div>Speaking of odd couplings, Thanksgiving is the day when I most realize that in addition to being <a href="http://www.interfaithfamily.com/relationships/marriage_and_relationships/Interfaith_Marriage_Sometimes_Its_Easier.shtml">an interfaith couple</a> and <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2009/05/swak-sealed-with-kitty.html">an international couple</a>, the Cheez and I are also an inter-animal print couple.<img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEguJ-pcG02qQG-6U8F1z_jUD9AvGHuGJCt0pcW3H_XJ8fbg4JPglF1lrbmMJ3XEmBwnlBt_5RuHi7xr06OZZWTZqXIHbygpejKGLw1cOTrJ-n1Dyg3xrVVzT9pI1pFJaVoq1c3n8LLfEKGp/s320/IMG_2530.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410900852317977186" /><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Of course, as John Lennon so beautifully sang, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">You may say I'm a leopard going out with a bovine, but I'm not the only one . . .</span><br /></div></div><div><div><div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxvmi9xH56etSzkFSWKPwlcDx8NG2HzABRm7NWbmcjdK8fFo9jbscKaYzVtjmk8776XYlANxceWDXCqtDOXybBHUcxtZlewIEg9PApfu1nQVjwbIriMoWBUitdV57eZmnvdoD-V8ZnOLS_/s320/IMG_2524.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410900840694634738" />Okay, maybe his panties are a little more equine than bovine, but it's a holiday, people, don't be so uptight. </div><div><br /></div><div>Or rather, up tights.</div><div><br /></div><div>After all, the holiday is about joy and thankfulness and gathering with your loved ones.</div><div><br /></div><div><img style="text-align: left;display: block; margin-top: 0px; margin-right: auto; margin-bottom: 10px; margin-left: auto; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px; " src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgUdcFJ4eqSVtbd_ceFZUx1g0TMa8HCAGy4LctQKgJ3qJAeuuad4uKC6mVJ4H3fimkl_Vlzsilk7zW8CzZCNDHmAph5yCpfc0d6Y654EgWZedHEmsF98kzrj9t6sD1ooTJajlolEZgztZLD/s320/IMG_2564.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410900860301008354" />Indeed, this pink-crowned and red boa-ed guest is the exemplum of family values, surrounded as he is by his daughter, son, niece, and two nephews.<br /><br />I guess I don't know why I was so worried that things were changing. </div><div><br /></div><div>After all, Thanksgiving will always be my favorite holiday. My pies will always be delicious. Faux leopard will always be the outfit of choice. My team will always lose the post-prandial football game.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4usBXyCCT2wEof5BkAPil-3bVcTzTPOeBcXN3waEmcSDOdZ9vRqSyKfWOKWKLIPEArznlUF62RM9X2A43QBwQozC9guPgBvVUx6EDb13ivyDMQ_UPF5t3fIEy7Kf9hYpiq6-EKbtGCfr/s1600-h/IMG_2601.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiR4usBXyCCT2wEof5BkAPil-3bVcTzTPOeBcXN3waEmcSDOdZ9vRqSyKfWOKWKLIPEArznlUF62RM9X2A43QBwQozC9guPgBvVUx6EDb13ivyDMQ_UPF5t3fIEy7Kf9hYpiq6-EKbtGCfr/s320/IMG_2601.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5410901565654515058" /></a><div>But we will always have the better team photo.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>And Carol did do a great job of keeping her five grandchildren occupied, while we in the middle generation had the Accordion-Christmas Carol-and-Endless Eighties-Singalong that are <a href="http://www.flickr.com/photos/themcmullans/305317908/">a long-documented Thanksgiving tradition</a>.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div><div><a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2009/06/celebrityation-of-life.html">Farrah may be dead</a>, but Nana lives on. </div></div><div><div style="text-align: center;"><br /></div></div></div></div></div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-13109147937688982902009-11-17T22:03:00.000-08:002009-11-17T23:43:50.112-08:00Oh the Humanities!Trust me. I'm a doctor.<div><br /></div><div>Albeit not the kind Jewish mothers kvell about. </div><div><br /></div><div>More the kind lavender ladies croon about. </div><div><br /></div><div>Which is just (closer to) fine with me.</div><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjq-q5tLPOJFJAgO9chqzjVaJmPhcP4VVQpU95tZ3HjCwUAElWxV_QctWHFkH1T7RMHI8hgGMm6yua0hRmnCJ3Qa7halqs7tTRgDSm3DNCDL0IOQP4aTfhai-7W2rcXiUsA2IaSndRD_4As/s320/IndigoGirls.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405324016895906898" />The best thing about getting a Ph.D.? The tiara I bought myself to celebrate finishing the damn degree. After spending a year writing a fascinating and insightful dissertation that I'm pretty sure nobody has ever read (and yes, I am including my advisor in that assessment), I figured I ought to have something to show for it.<div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So why not something sparkly and glamorous and likely to be coveted by drag queens?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Who says a girl has to be biologically a boy just to wear herself a crown?</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Are you a princess or a queen?</span> the neighborhood crazy lady queried, as I marched into the post office, tiara-clad, to mail something off on my way to school to file my dissertation, that fateful long ago day.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Neither</span> I answered, only slightly put off that the person calling me out on weird wardrobe was the neighborhood crazy lady <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">I am a doctor.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div style="text-align: left;">These days, seldom having any occasion to dissert, profess, or</div><img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEistChZdLgvN-VBzq8ekOW51qLkNeanKPZgdUA5awkPDeeAoBCJMubxVY0aqlKs-w6hQhooGxt87hOAXcRWl4SSHw31UKr3ULYW5cQptfoJ1lNGdrlWm81bDWTKWpAcjd6RuDLqdGBSQI8I/s320/IMG_0003.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405326527078252626" /><div style="text-align: left;"> serve as a<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> beauty pageant runner-up, I only find cause to don the tiara once a year.</span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My birthday.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Because everything, even chocolate cake, is better with rhinestones.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And, apparently, a bra strap hanging out.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Ah well, it was mostly a glamorous birthday bash we had here at Dutchboy this past Saturday. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Even if it was a little lacking in <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2008/11/wet-behind-ears-with-frosting.html">the sexpertise of yore</a>. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">And my actual birthday, which was Monday, was pretty rocking too. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">My boss brought me a cupcake. And she didn't even pretend to have baked it herself.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Then I <a href="http://www.literary-arts.org/boxoffice/199/">Delved</a> into some Shakespeare. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Specifically, into the final class of the Shakespeare seminar I've been teaching. </div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpd1WpVGUEcxNoui6MoOEObuFAcIUBXdLEYJcWclxL4eOm8RJUo9mfCbBxA9Vmx4dqB_VaPkw0GfzRPaYPmTBPXgEZutRbiMtFW9RHenPgl9JUDd4q6WGfKXJAi-NirEgLKEdjIQIPAbe/s1600/MuchAdollyAboutNothing.jpg"><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 294px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHpd1WpVGUEcxNoui6MoOEObuFAcIUBXdLEYJcWclxL4eOm8RJUo9mfCbBxA9Vmx4dqB_VaPkw0GfzRPaYPmTBPXgEZutRbiMtFW9RHenPgl9JUDd4q6WGfKXJAi-NirEgLKEdjIQIPAbe/s320/MuchAdollyAboutNothing.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405337128253333874" /></a><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Because, you know, having a new full time job plus my usual twelve thousand hobbies just didn't seem like enough to fill my days, without a good dozen hours of reading Elizabethan English every week.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">The seminarians were really great. One of them said she took the class because she liked my article in <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Bitch</span> magazine <a href="http://bitchmagazine.org/article/factory-girl">critiquing the global politics of Viacom's Dora the Explorer franchise</a>. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Si, se puede, </span>as Caesar Chavespeare might have put it.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Another seminarian told me I was the first good teacher she ever had. The fact that she has a graduate degree is perhaps more a statement about the lows of higher education than the heights of my Delving. But I do not look a gift horse in the mouth.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Or, in this case, a Greek bearing gifts. Which she was, both in terms of Hellenic heritage and in terms of giving me a handcrafted, locally grown, chocolate vodka.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">If that wasn't enough of a Jewish girl's dream day, I came home to discover the postal carrier had delivered the latest issue of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;"><a href="http://inscribe.iupress.org/toc/bri/14/2">Bridges</a></span>, which in case you never heard of it is like <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Bitch </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">mit a bissel Yiddish <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: normal;">thrown in. And there, right on pages 75-77, was a poem by little old me.</span></span></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">About a course I had to take to get my Ph.D.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">So now, in addition to being a doctor, a tiara-donner, a righteous 9 to 5-er, a Dora-critiquer and an intrepid Delver, I am also a published poet. </div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;">Next thing you know, we'll be seeing Robert Pinsky traipsing around in a rhinestone crown with his bra strap hanging out.</div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div><div style="text-align: left;"><br /></div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-90227518384936813892009-11-12T21:16:00.000-08:002009-11-12T22:38:11.738-08:00From the Mouths of Bards. Well, Only One Bard. And Thus One Mouth.I meant to do a Happy Hallotween post. <div><br /></div><div>It involved an Erev Halloween voicemail from <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2008/08/portland-rfd.html">our favorite tween</a>, in which she shrieks in terror.</div><div><br /></div><div>Terror because her father walks into the room while she is leaving us a message about how she can't hang out with us on Halloween because she is going on a six hour trick or treat binge with her peers, and tells her in that cruel way parents do that she totally not going trick or treating for six hours. She is only allowed to go trick or treating for like four hours. Five max.</div><div><br /></div><div>Then Halloween actually happened. And the <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2009/02/rhymes-with-oranges-are-not-only-fruit.html">Walloon of Walgreens</a> and his Wuvely Wife surprised the whole block by dressing up as me and the Cheez.</div><div><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisgFYUSChDwoBJR8jvPH8G35cxLxnxgDj1PMEwGNjaA8uiN0e3vhvL-Iz9fyA8oMmvjyWW7Q-2mn-4CmZLu8TMEF1UhH1y6NDNyvKKh8nfihow1pICWMRheu57t-HMBeleT8NTDe46goDf/s1600-h/IMG_2371.JPG"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEisgFYUSChDwoBJR8jvPH8G35cxLxnxgDj1PMEwGNjaA8uiN0e3vhvL-Iz9fyA8oMmvjyWW7Q-2mn-4CmZLu8TMEF1UhH1y6NDNyvKKh8nfihow1pICWMRheu57t-HMBeleT8NTDe46goDf/s320/IMG_2371.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403455554841976418" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family:verdana;">That Is Not My Beautiful Walloon</span></div><div><br /></div><div>So I kind of lost the thread of the Hallotween post. And apparently of the All Saint's Day, Election Day, and Veteran's Day posts as well.</div><div><br /></div><div>But now I've got a surefire idea for a post topic. </div><div><br /></div><div>Plagiarism.</div><div><br /></div><div>Only, that's an ugly word. Let's go with Literary Tribute instead.</div><div><br /></div><div>That's much nicer. And appropriate, as I am plagiarizing a literary treasure.</div><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihOKY5uPlQKbrAUz6FtndfB9ZqIDB4TJ_GAY9pOBrzD2LeJ2hvQVTWeUDYJvQGWCN8xSQxIUQ1tVYYDiv6ELrV39_wqbyNubpWWJMaAjEnlAOIYe5R1XGePuQOYFnzNfyAjfgTtFX9U9IB/s1600-h/TsearsureChest.jpg"><img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEihOKY5uPlQKbrAUz6FtndfB9ZqIDB4TJ_GAY9pOBrzD2LeJ2hvQVTWeUDYJvQGWCN8xSQxIUQ1tVYYDiv6ELrV39_wqbyNubpWWJMaAjEnlAOIYe5R1XGePuQOYFnzNfyAjfgTtFX9U9IB/s320/TsearsureChest.jpg" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403462900658409554" /></a><div><br /></div><div>So here, without further ado (i.e., more crap photoshop) are the quotable quotes from the eight-week-minus-that-one-I-was-<a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2009/10/mishpucha-at-movies.html">with-my-Schwinstress-in-San-Francisco</a> poetry workshop I took this fall with Peter Sears.</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">My Own Personal Sears Catalogue:</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">We do depend on narrative to some degree, especially here in Oregon.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Read the cummings poem and have a glass of wine.</span></div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Hot language beats everything. Deep meaning--leave that to John Donne. Or whoever.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">We have a right wing in poetry that is kind of formal But they're just stodgy. They don't really write.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">That's what poets do. They don't want characters chapters, plot. Screw it. They want language.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Where can I get a pink tshirt?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">You have a real strength in things. The thingness of the poem. </span>[said in response to a poem we were critiquing, not, alas, one of mine. Apparently I'm a little thing-lite when it comes to poesy]</div><div><br /></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">We call that in the business POETICIZING. Poeticizing, a nasty way of saying what she just said.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">There he is throwing up in the john, or having angst, or looking out the window. Whatever it is.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Are we talking your talk, honey?</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Sounds like a Ronald Reagan speech.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">All the poems work that way </span>Peter declares<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">. </span>Dubious, workshop student responds, <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">All</span>?. Peter considers. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">A lot of poems </span>he concedes.</div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Wallace Stevens wrote a few good poems, you know. And he did philosophy up and down.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>On lyric: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">That's a place, especially with males, where things strut.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Also, the soul is only one syllable, so I like it much better than spirituality.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">By young, I mean under fifty.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>On William Stafford: <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">That's why a lot of people hate his poetry. They can't figure out how the hell he does it.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Sex, war, and some good meals. There's a title for your first book.</span></div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div><div>As you can imagine, it was a deeply edifying experience. </div><div><br /></div><div>Maybe because I have so much to learn about writing poetry.</div><div><br /></div><div>But at least I know where you can get a pink shirt.</div><div><br /></div><div>Right over at the Walgreens. Which is just the place to go when you're celebrating <a href="http://www.monkeypuzzleonline.com/magazine/?p=1384">having your second ever poem</a> accepted for publication anyplace that isn't your high school literary magazine. </div><div><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-60437797124314149202009-10-26T20:28:00.001-07:002009-10-26T21:32:12.250-07:00Mishpucha at the MoviesI have some news.<div><br /></div><div>It has taken me quite a while to blog it.</div><div><br /></div><div>Now the news is so old it's almost retro.<div><br /></div><div>I have a job. </div><div><br /></div><div>A full-time, go to the office five days a week job. </div><div><br /></div><div>I had heard about these things, but I never thought it could happen to me.</div><div><br /></div><div>Farewell <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2009/06/furange-county.html">FurryCon,</a> and <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2008/03/winkel-in-my-eye.html">Winkel in my eye,</a> and all the other strange adventures of being self-employed.</div><div><br /></div><div>The new job is very nice. Everyone there is very nice. <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">Welcome to the family</span>, people keep saying. </div><div><br /></div><div>Because apparently <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-style: italic;">family</span> is an indication of a warm workplace. So long as you don't happen to be a Soprano, a Corleone, or <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2008/07/you-can-always-tell-harvard-grad-but.html">have a family like mine</a>.</div><div><br /></div><div>Most people, upon landing a new job, might take a week off and go on an exotic tropical vacation, perhaps indulge themselves with a major purchase like a fancy new car.</div><img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_z4DMH_lSvB6Tq2MhP2r2aDpBd8PO9ZRt3bOiB458gmIeLJTMtb8VZaXQoGuTNgOIi3OA0Qa0_XwJ1pAqSW6Y6nDb7CUuqSxW1RDziwk7yGaNYZrTcuxfcr9H3SzV31zV6L6zsHIFVJ6I/s320/IMG_2165.JPG" border="0" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397119821588858114" /><div><br /></div><div>The Macaronimaniac version of this Bermuda and a Beemer indulgence, alas, turned out to be spending the weekend in San Francisco hanging out with my college roommates, and treating myself to a new used Schwinn off Craigslist.</div><div><br /></div><div>Yes, I am now such a bike geek, I am keeping a spare bike in another city. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is a little like having a mistress.</div><div><br /></div><div>A maroon, ten-speed mistress whose tires could use a little air.</div><div><br /></div><div>Okay, so maybe it's nothing like having a mistress. </div><div><br /></div><div>It is a lot like having a method of transit to whisk yourself around the city, which is what college roommate <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2008/02/ingmar-bergman-was-never-called-asshole.html">Little Orphan Annie</a> and I did, that one glorious Friday of her playing hookie from work and me not having started my new job yet.<br /></div><div><br /></div><div>We were so wild and out of control, we decided to go see a film right in the middle of the day.</div><div><br /></div><div>Specifically, the new Coen brothers film.</div><div><br /></div><div>Only problem, when you go to see a Jewish movie during the day, i.e. when they are not charging full price for the tickets, you are pretty much asking for it.</div><div><br /></div><div>It being, having two AKs sitting behind you. </div><div><br /></div><div>(Note to my goyishe readers: If you don't know what the AK in the previous sentence means, suffice it to say, 47 is about 20 too short. If you still have no idea what in the name of Yiddishkeit I'm talking about, <a href="http://www.forward.com/articles/13169/">read up on it here</a>).</div><div><br /></div><div>Don't get me wrong, there are a lot of amusing lines in the new Coen brothers film. I just didn't need to hear them in surround sound--first from the screen, then repeated by Siskel and Eberg in the row behind us.</div><div><br /></div><div>Welcome to the Mishpucha.</div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div><div><br /></div></div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-28446416034721433562009-10-10T08:39:00.000-07:002009-10-10T10:01:31.838-07:00Air Show of ForceAll work and no play makes Mac a dull blogger.<br /><br />Most of the time.<br /><br />But every now and again, work takes me to some fascinating new place, where I have exotic new experiences.<br /><br />Like <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2009/06/furange-county.html">accidentally attending a FurryCon</a>.<br /><br />College friend Nick and I were back on the road this week, this time in San Francisco.<br />And since our biz travels always seem to coincide with something kinky, perhaps it's no surprise we turned up here to find it's Fleet Week.<br /><br />It seems a little redundant to have shore leave in a city where everyone is already covered in tattoos, but I guess that's military intelligence for you.<br /><br />For us, Fleet Week turned out to be more of flyover week:<br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwpHC72ika5nMHNcmn834d38W4lS7v5UebpnC3LVphV_yTMbrIHB3SsTHf5XytMh13jyJcIgtfcUxlVCBHaKw' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br />The thing about the Blue Angels is that they're not as impressive as they used to be, back before movie special effects got so interesting.<br /><br />Turns out, the actual planes are sort of mediocre by comparison to whatever is playing at the local multiplex. If you look closely enough at the clip above, you can practically see Shatner being tossed sideways in his Naugahyde captain's chair.<br /><br />Still, it is loud and proud and does attract attention. <br /><br />Kind of like a Jewish mother at her son's medical school graduation. <span style="font-style: italic;">Since the day he was born, I am telling you, the nurses in the delivery room all looked at him like he was already the one in charge.</span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjclTVdYDKWHhmOkJeDu4PuMoVNTQXj2p4AcWg8tei3ZAhyPmE9aI9uoSdIdI0BwvKZcg9UuLniImK3Y4tTRHRqzx7eQQQpRXWjIJxo6N8lcqyLh3dg_5tKMKKzH9AneVuxlkU0nXR8NnNA/s1600-h/IMG_2199.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjclTVdYDKWHhmOkJeDu4PuMoVNTQXj2p4AcWg8tei3ZAhyPmE9aI9uoSdIdI0BwvKZcg9UuLniImK3Y4tTRHRqzx7eQQQpRXWjIJxo6N8lcqyLh3dg_5tKMKKzH9AneVuxlkU0nXR8NnNA/s320/IMG_2199.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391013543519466610" border="0" /></a>Sort of amazing to see the cultured peeps of the City by the eBay getting their Blue Angels on.<br /><br />Here are my fellow museum goers, in the sculpture garden, anxiously awaiting the next swoop of the jets.<br /><br />Funny, most places in the world, when the U.S. military is about to fly over, the people beneath them are anxious in a whole other way.Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-82606795008780424642009-09-26T17:01:00.000-07:002009-09-26T18:54:12.066-07:00Hebe on the Range<span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Dateline, 5770</span><br /><br />Shanah Tovah</span> I said to my friend Elon. <br /><br />Not exactly big news (though perhaps big nose), one Jew wishing another a Happy New Year.<br /><br />Except that it was happening in the VIP room at the <a href="http://pendletonroundup.com/">Pendleton Round-Up</a>.<br /><br />Elon expressed some concern that I was going to get us killed, revealing our shared tribal identity.<br /><br />I tried to reassure him that with any luck, our furrin jibberish would be mistaken for another tribal language entirely.<br /><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiep87d4QiHCC6U-QfFYWmQ-e7ADXwe7nWXbgUKjrVwjiRfjcftoggEYoLUtgWDx-A_lHG99iGBM9a7zeiSxucMg61wBB_7fFYnY5w2ipTaVhb69LxfShyTQ-9Hq74xm6b17jbCA2g17tpG/s1600-h/IMG_1862.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiep87d4QiHCC6U-QfFYWmQ-e7ADXwe7nWXbgUKjrVwjiRfjcftoggEYoLUtgWDx-A_lHG99iGBM9a7zeiSxucMg61wBB_7fFYnY5w2ipTaVhb69LxfShyTQ-9Hq74xm6b17jbCA2g17tpG/s320/IMG_1862.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385934137340070082" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Not the kind of Princess who attended High Holiday Services at</span> <span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">the Dix Hills Jewish Center, back on Long Island</span><br /><br /><br /></div>Apparently, in Eastern Oregon, <span style="font-style: italic;">tribal dancing </span>does not refer to <a href="http://www.forward.com/articles/12226/">the Hora</a>.<br /><br />Still and all, if you want a reason to say the <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shehecheyanu"><span style="font-style: italic;">Shehecheyanu</span></a> (i.e., the blessing for new experiences) you really can't do better than Jew at a rodeo.<br /><br />The entire weekend was very educational.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpsk5pOVk2lX6fEyH7ro0e4CDbJwawMMTfGyUUT7nujpNGJVG9PCYNKaFxiI7Oy6Di99CUPSTWfWxeQ7CYOL4s0lUWz2VXXNXWu-WbuC4ldtXtot2DAidq6CJn2w-dKA4cdtobcL3koKo/s1600-h/IMG_1814.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzpsk5pOVk2lX6fEyH7ro0e4CDbJwawMMTfGyUUT7nujpNGJVG9PCYNKaFxiI7Oy6Di99CUPSTWfWxeQ7CYOL4s0lUWz2VXXNXWu-WbuC4ldtXtot2DAidq6CJn2w-dKA4cdtobcL3koKo/s320/IMG_1814.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385939569699149122" border="0" /></a><br />This is not a slick lick banker from the city, come to talk simple farm folk out of their land<br /><br />This is the Cheez, in his homemade string tie (Recipe: buy string. tie string. good to go.), sitting with <a href="http://www.blogcatalog.com/blog/macaronimaniac/0371cd0acf3e34d330672d6ab2769f29">Young Joey Smallwood</a> and not-s0-Millie Vannelli, in the lobby of the Balch Hotel in scenic Dufur, Oregon, where our party spent Erev RoundUp.<br /><br />Half our party had rooms with a Mount Hood view. The other half had rooms with a private bath. Suffice it to say, Mount Hood is breathtaking, but a bit far to hike when you need to take a leak at 2 am.<br /><br />Nevertheless, I do recommend the Balch Hotel. Especially over the alternative.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJfoC43o-8HwUBZzjHMgbmHh4T_tUVAhP9DAh_yO6OigWGfXGa1ENeh_F61XwY0U8TsjHqijBhylkXrSDNTSZIKzZfLAUPTmPEAr0UmuaENgCcQmqjovpjvTtkAkLObxJfGBqG26Hrf9y/s1600-h/IMG_1760.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiiJfoC43o-8HwUBZzjHMgbmHh4T_tUVAhP9DAh_yO6OigWGfXGa1ENeh_F61XwY0U8TsjHqijBhylkXrSDNTSZIKzZfLAUPTmPEAr0UmuaENgCcQmqjovpjvTtkAkLObxJfGBqG26Hrf9y/s320/IMG_1760.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385943123799711474" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Alleyway "Suite," The Dalles, Oregon<br />No Mount Hood view, but you can pee just about anywhere,<br />including on the mattress. You probably wouldn't be the first.<br /></span></div><br />I realize rodeo is not without controversy. I mean, just because I'm <a href="http://macaronimaniac.blogspot.com/2009/05/swak-sealed-with-kitty.html">pro-seal hunt</a>, doesn't mean I can condone a "sport" that involves animals being prodded and herded through a chute.<br /><div style="text-align: center;"><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix91P-uD4GDEO-PBkTElwhYNDInBtfmnP-VQdf_iXdaEGzo6Yl6E9qE0IJxJV5wpUXDO9QCzrtiOAzTgNYvIMaNQe4H8gL21iixkEjQ8NP0h5qObMIckj_VhuBVPNrApvr6zm4Yd3cAmXL/s1600-h/IMG_1869.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEix91P-uD4GDEO-PBkTElwhYNDInBtfmnP-VQdf_iXdaEGzo6Yl6E9qE0IJxJV5wpUXDO9QCzrtiOAzTgNYvIMaNQe4H8gL21iixkEjQ8NP0h5qObMIckj_VhuBVPNrApvr6zm4Yd3cAmXL/s320/IMG_1869.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385944525869930898" border="0" /></a><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">Oh, wait, those are the patrons.</span><br /></div><br />So if you're wondering how a nice bleeding heart Jewish pescetarian like Macaronimaniac ended up Rounding Up: it was really an act of international diplomacy. Because Little Joey Smallwood had arranged for us to share the event with Hannu Penttila.<br /><br />Hannu Penttila being not a pineapple-glazed Hawaiian pork dish (so not Rosh Hashana), but rather the <a href="http://www.hel.fi/wps/portal/Helsinki_en/Artikkeli?WCM_GLOBAL_CONTEXT=/helsinki/en/City%20government/Mayors/Deputy%20Mayor%20Hannu%20Penttil_">Deputy Mayor of Helsinki</a>.<br /><br />Of course, the Finns being known for their wild and crazy ways, Hannu really taught the otherwise dour and sedate Pendletonians how to cut loose.<br /><span style="font-style: italic;"></span><br /><iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.blogger.com/video.g?token=AD6v5dwhWNh_3VBW29P41-1fR2rqoBvPnZ88D8gtHw4eq9CvfZWwHgqALOMHQOUftkbaJ2-OfNwE6ky9114-FGp7fA' class='b-hbp-video b-uploaded' frameborder='0'></iframe><br /><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-family:trebuchet ms;">When Ken Isley, aka the Rodeo Clown, announced to the thousands of gathered fans that the crowd included a couple who had come all the way from Finland, someone in the stands greeted them with the welcoming shout, "At least they're not from France!"<br /><br />I am not making that up.</span><br /><br /><div style="text-align: left;">The Finns were not the only ones having trouble crossing the cultural divide. When Cheez went off to the Little Cowpokes room, I asked him to pick me up a vegetarian snack on the way back. Alas, he spent twenty minutes waiting in the Beer Chips line.<br /><br />Still, plastic beer tokens might have had more culinary appeal than some of the weekend's other offerings.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRS9pYvdeHLNsOJbbCaAoKrTgfcKawV1XdsK8OaqeuvwNMZUfOiiM2uf5o188l1XcQbjrF1wbhNWTgoPVGJi8rWDy1Zui9uWyO6ortObhfqYkG473QSCiuOxFI6hEcYFFSTqwWKUr5UDAw/s1600-h/IMG_2063.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjRS9pYvdeHLNsOJbbCaAoKrTgfcKawV1XdsK8OaqeuvwNMZUfOiiM2uf5o188l1XcQbjrF1wbhNWTgoPVGJi8rWDy1Zui9uWyO6ortObhfqYkG473QSCiuOxFI6hEcYFFSTqwWKUr5UDAw/s320/IMG_2063.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385950207549853522" border="0" /></a>Of course, any event whose tagline is <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">Let 'Er Buck</span></span><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;"></span></span> offers fascinating gender politics as well.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibXXeeN95yT2i9exHwgFmIQsJJVDxlM5kp6YuvvlMPl2LXcF0TupRTtp-FNt21Mq0_bx2gM6UCwEaV4RBBqV9F-FVun2lkN1LeVKsIUHS0zyA_Gwkv0QS4U-ejWtjdQOKp9-o1_Was_6IX/s1600-h/IMG_1937.JPG"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibXXeeN95yT2i9exHwgFmIQsJJVDxlM5kp6YuvvlMPl2LXcF0TupRTtp-FNt21Mq0_bx2gM6UCwEaV4RBBqV9F-FVun2lkN1LeVKsIUHS0zyA_Gwkv0QS4U-ejWtjdQOKp9-o1_Was_6IX/s320/IMG_1937.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385952355033400706" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />I hadn't seen anything quite so manly since . . .<br />hmm, well . . . I guess that would have to be, since I lived in <a href="http://www.gogaywesthollywood.com/">West Hollywood</a>.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Seriously, I had no idea that when they announced which bareback rider had won the purse, they would mean it so literally.<br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5APOQvj5lCLDqpZrQ0DiApEevGKf614Y-3Wjvls2_SNdv8nzEyuS8Pb7VL7KHcW6Xw4BBNXNYUplFtECXqFdsh16OFB7cpcl9lLNroxkndNuak67kvB4MxW2F98DNvYDaURL6Oj4N5sKj/s1600-h/purse.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 251px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj5APOQvj5lCLDqpZrQ0DiApEevGKf614Y-3Wjvls2_SNdv8nzEyuS8Pb7VL7KHcW6Xw4BBNXNYUplFtECXqFdsh16OFB7cpcl9lLNroxkndNuak67kvB4MxW2F98DNvYDaURL6Oj4N5sKj/s320/purse.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385952971213097362" border="0" /></a>Yes, men compete in grueling physical activity, and then the winner rides around the arena with his new handbag and new blanket. How butch is that?<br /><br />Okay, not very. But I wouldn't mention that in Pendleton, any more than I'd wish them a great big L'Shanah Tovah Tikatevu, and a rousing Vive La France.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK7uBTBhgjHzCQNt0Q0vA3vtU7Kpt09s3jUi24h5KCiMJU4tmzL7XdPoeQi7McHaF5lle6hyPaVgfJ-LzBBTxOZNrB3YeYE2LALTJth0juaxOjes2tqPUBQeZou0MpuNt3OURS-1WOgZnV/s1600-h/yid+haw.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiK7uBTBhgjHzCQNt0Q0vA3vtU7Kpt09s3jUi24h5KCiMJU4tmzL7XdPoeQi7McHaF5lle6hyPaVgfJ-LzBBTxOZNrB3YeYE2LALTJth0juaxOjes2tqPUBQeZou0MpuNt3OURS-1WOgZnV/s400/yid+haw.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5385958099455591618" border="0" /></a><br /><br /></div></div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-7823417555881877702.post-28120634878765590152009-09-18T18:38:00.002-07:002009-09-20T21:20:39.094-07:00Spotted at the Performing Arts FestivalQuiz:<br />What is the most striking element of this picture?<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzFXieUadTewIXNVwgjspWTm1jq_L7V4DqEE_f1e9mdgJRwgHArUB3bUQc0d5LmLVNurJt74b9aGsHc7JNV8ven9QMRSFXza-0IcANe5RjdJtzYOsuUvGLC0PQoaNXN1_OGqqjNu8ry0r/s1600-h/IMG_0015_JPG.jpg"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgOzFXieUadTewIXNVwgjspWTm1jq_L7V4DqEE_f1e9mdgJRwgHArUB3bUQc0d5LmLVNurJt74b9aGsHc7JNV8ven9QMRSFXza-0IcANe5RjdJtzYOsuUvGLC0PQoaNXN1_OGqqjNu8ry0r/s400/IMG_0015_JPG.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382987164957896146" border="0" /></a>Answer: It's that in the three weeks since I leopardize my bicycle, no one has noticed it.<br /><br />Well, no one except several homeless people, various of whom have commented positively as I rode by them.<br /><br />This kind of hurt my pride.<br /><br />And here I mean the vanity kind of pride, and not the pack of wildcat kind of pride. I'm pretty sure there is not yet a pride of leopard-bike riders in town. But it's Portland, you never know.<br /><br />I even put in extra miles on the bike, shlepping all over to see TBA events. And by TBA events, I do not mean <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Traditional_birth_attendant">Traditional Birth Attendant</a>. It's not that I don't know nothin about birthin babies. It's that I know this much about birthin babies: I have no damn desire to be doing it.<br /><br />I mean <span style="font-weight: bold;">Time Based Art</span>, Portland's <a href="http://pica.org/tba/tba09/default.aspx">performing arts festival</a>. Where you can see such inspired creativity as this:<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3L5nVqMtCs9VgJP_P8208OsJvAezJw1QD5rM2Px_8FMHIFbPTOiYFlRuWCdYZlA-XMVc8rewi_sO7tpSvNXWi5wP2aUH7K2HT6UM9x-9D-G343BA9RUCM2bdQm82HtvX61HX5etCcP9ql/s1600-h/IMG_1713.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi3L5nVqMtCs9VgJP_P8208OsJvAezJw1QD5rM2Px_8FMHIFbPTOiYFlRuWCdYZlA-XMVc8rewi_sO7tpSvNXWi5wP2aUH7K2HT6UM9x-9D-G343BA9RUCM2bdQm82HtvX61HX5etCcP9ql/s400/IMG_1713.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382990516210005938" border="0" /></a>Those are not hip artists doing performance art. It is a bunch of art lovers trying not to drop dead from the heat while sitting in Pioneer Courthouse Square on a ninety degree day, waiting for the performance art to start.<br /><br />Here are the hip artists:<br /><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEieyyTHGteXtmuiDJSbYmAj9SA6S9qVZkdMf4oMwjzVE4LzpFRQXCF_k2WM2l5LqfqtoCcj0CjndMLZcISnWwnIyUooHmqvGVtSqlndp-H2c7LMd1rzEEYX0a0sTJocyFzKvB11Gu725W3o/s400/IMG_1730.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382993630547901090" border="0" />Or are they here?<img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaQiOOf1g5KYyko9DA0ObYmsUSOaYgZ3oeRmB6aDxZENEN6NR425BV76z7-n4pq1K9xL8Yj9jWuO_I0yxr6DG_jP9Kv2wMZQ_iD__JO9c0vFzYanm2Mtvp_61x7iG9ajKi2XALvHQOjS6h/s400/IMG_1729.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382993641140402434" border="0" />No, wait, right here! Here is art happening:<a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA5hQnbFBkmOI7Aj9oMAspTA0UAI5eiWCXsdT1g1gLyozavfH7jcH9HUmhMDV83o9zhRMU_Ce2YU2Fw4dB0J08yxUmBmn9F-oeU1kiA0N15IPo3xz6uhyphenhyphenqND8aHHVTgau8A0HdSRMmdkpb/s1600-h/IMG_1720.JPG"><img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhA5hQnbFBkmOI7Aj9oMAspTA0UAI5eiWCXsdT1g1gLyozavfH7jcH9HUmhMDV83o9zhRMU_Ce2YU2Fw4dB0J08yxUmBmn9F-oeU1kiA0N15IPo3xz6uhyphenhyphenqND8aHHVTgau8A0HdSRMmdkpb/s400/IMG_1720.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382993650709015362" border="0" /></a>Not the dude with the Free Hugs sign. He's just a random freak. Not unlike Bovine of Arabia in the picture above.<br /><br />The artists are the two short guys, who are part of a theater troupe called <a href="http://backtobacktheatre.com/">Back to Back Theatre</a> (wily buggers, since they are actually pretty much belly to belly in this shot). <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">Back to Back</span> features actors with disabilities, who perform plays in public spaces.<div><br /></div><div>Spaces that happen to be filled with other people. And, in this case, with tents, balloons, and free huggers (which now that I think of it are perhaps an inevitable product of cross-pollination between Portland institution of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">free box</span> and Portland infestation of <span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-weight: bold;">tree huggers</span>). </div><div><br /></div><div>The point is, none of this stuff was put there by the troupe. They're just a handful of actors, performing without stage sets or extras. Or performing with whatever stage sets and extras happen to turn up.<br /><br />Part of the audience experience for me was watching everyone else in Pioneer Courthouse Square, to see whether they noticed the show. Which most of them didn't. Which is a great comment on how much human drama is going on around us all the time, and how oblivious we often are to the emotional struggles and triumphs of our fellow human beings.<div><div><br /></div><div>Not everyone, of course. You could see that too: every so often, someone in the crowd would happen upon the actors and totally notice them. Go up to them. Maybe even try to talk to them.</div><div><br /></div><div>There's a word for these kind of people.</div><div><br /></div><div>Homeless.</div><div><br /></div><div>That was my biggest epiphany while watching the play: we middle class people spend a lot of the time that we are in public space trying to keep our focus as narrow as possible. Trying not to notice anything that seems a little weird. Definitely not stopping to soak it up or communicate with the person involved. Anything too weird might sully us. Or sully our sense of safety. Or our sense of entitlement.</div><div><br /></div><div>Homeless people, by contrast, keep their eyes open for anything that might be going down. Might be a boon to them. Might be a threat to them. Might just be an animal print-decorated amusement to them. That's why they're voted Mostly Likely to Notice My Bike.</div><div><br /></div><div>My second biggest epiphany while watching the play is that their is a reason paper hats have not caught on as a long-term millinery medium. And it's not just that it's hard to adorn them with cat ears.</div></div></div>Macaronihttp://www.blogger.com/profile/04485649139853673060noreply@blogger.com0