SWAK (Sealed With a Kitty)

Ever since I gave away my car with the I'm Pro-Accordion and I Vote bumper sticker, I've worried that people may have trouble gauging my political leanings.  

So in case you're wondering:  I'm a feminist-environmentalist-urban dwelling-lifelong vegetarian, and I'm pro-seal hunt.

You heard me right.  

Feminist.

Oh, wait, was it the pro-seal hunt part that surprised you?

Yes, I'm pro-seal hunt like the Rock is pro-wrestling.  Really, it's the least I could do.  Because while I am from the great state of I ♥ New York my squeeze the Cheez is from the land of  I ♣ Seals.  

Not that he's ever clubbed a seal.  No indeed.  He's a gentle sort.  Bookish and computer geekly and not much of a hunter.  So instead of clubbing seals, he just gets out the can opener and opens himself a tin of seal meat, when the need arises.

Which luckily is none too often, on account of how hard it is to find the canned seal meat over at the Trader Joe's.  

Actually, Trader Joe's doesn't stock any food from anywhere in eastern Canada, due to outrage over the seal hunt.  Chocolate produced by enslaved child labor, that they have. 

But a little organic produce from Moncton, New Brunswick, no dice.  Too tainted by the several-hundred-miles-away proximity to seal hunting.  

Which is a little like boycotting Duke University because it's so tainted by what happens in Hershey, Pennsylvania.

Now, I understand that seals are all white and fluffy and adorable (unlike enslaved children, who tend to be malnourished and scabby).  But you know, so are lambs and marshmallows.  And the Trader has no problem pushing those.

So what's the deal with seal?

Well, for one thing, as one of my favorite Rumbolts put it, you take anything out on the snow and kill it, it's going to look gruesome.   Martha Stewart's beet salad would come off like the Manson family supper.  

Luckily, beef slaughter always happens in an attractive manner.

But seal, they make for a picture-perfect Greenpeace fundraising campaign.  

Not that Harp seals are endangered.  There are over 5.6 million of them frolicking about. Frankly, Harp lager is in greater danger of being completely annihilated by Newfies.  

Cod, on the other hand, which seal eat, are kind of screwed, numbers wise.

Which is what has the good people of Newfoundland, who depended on the cod fishery for centuries, until overfishing by international fleets in the North Atlantic caused the entire collapse of the cod fishery, equally screwed.  

And now, they can't even sell their seal to the Trader Joe's.

Luckily, the Japanese are still buying.  Because the Japanese know first-hand that sometimes something that seems  fluffy and white and cute and adorable really ought to be bludgeoned to death ASAP.

I Shot a Moose

I shot a moose.


I was hunting, upstate New York, and I shot a moose.

Okay, okay, so that wasn't me.

That was Woody Allen.

It's an honest mistake. Between the shnoz and the glasses . . . all us people look alike.



Really, I wouldn't shoot a moose.

I have nothing against moose.

I love moose.


















I also have nothing against moose hunters.

Not per se.

I've even partied with moose hunters.

Note actual bull moose antlers on the wall.
From a bull that was killed by our host, Trent.
Don't be fooled by the perspective.
The antlers are bigger than the pile of empties.
Though the moose hunters' pile of empties is certainly not inconsequential.

My squeeze the Cheez is, after all, a Newfie.

And Newfies would never turn down moose meat.
Though they would hunt down moose meat. And they do, every chance they get.

Environmentalist/pescetarian/city dwelling Hebe that I am, it's always a little weird when we go to visit the Newfoundland and Labrador relatives. Because they kill most of what they eat. At least, most of their protein sources.

It is very hard to kill vegetables in Newfoundland and Labrador, as none of them grow there.

Or almost none. If you are a potatocidal maniac, you can probably work yourself up a heckuva slaughter.

Alton Rumbolt, pictured above in his baseball cap, is only an avocational moose hunter. He is a professional fisherman. So whether it's a workday or a day off, he's pretty much kicking a protein source to the curb.

Not that there are curbs where he lives. Or paved roads.

He does lay off the protein assassinating while serving his community. Alton is as a member of the town council of Mary's Harbour, Labrador.

Here is the full roster of town officials for Mary's Harbour:

Mayor: Ford Rumbolt
Deputy Mayor: Larry Rumbolt
Councillors (note colourful Canadian spelling!): Alton Rumbolt, Bradley Rumbolt, Darron Rumbolt, Harvey R. Rumbolt, and, lest ye think nepotism has a stranglehold on the town, Janice Sooley.
The Town Clerk is Glenys Rumbolt. If she is unavailable, fear not, as Relief Clerk Sheena Rumbolt can step in.
Albert Rumbolt runs the Maintenance Department, Jeffrey Rumbolt runs the Fire Department, and Bradley Rumbolt runs the Recreation Department — which means he oversees the Raymond C. Rumbolt Memorial Recreation Centre.

I can't say that they are all of them moose hunters. But I have my suspicions. You know how it is with smalltown politicians up in the frozen North.

Take a Gander at My Survivalist Gear

It's been a week more punderful than wonderful. First the local purveyor of used accordions put the squeeze on me. And then the editor of a certain literary journal tried to subject me to his own peculiar submission policy.

But the world is not coming to an end. Okay, well, global warming and all - maybe the world is coming to an end, but no faster just because my week stank. The sun is out and I know every word of every line of "I Will Survive." It is time to blog on!

What do these two men have in common?














Besides the look of surprise, I mean.

On the left we have Joey Smallwood, petite but potent Provinicial Premier. Joey was such a devoted politician he pretty much hand-crafted a constituency by convincing Newfoundland and Labrador to become part of Canada in 1949. He went door to door lobbying for Confederation, and as soon as it passed, he got himself elected premier of the province (that is how they say governor of the state in Canadian. They say lieutenant governor as lufftenant governor).

On the right we have Metro President David Bragdon. President sounds pretty top dog, although the glory of the title is perhaps undercut by the fact that even fewer people know anything about Metro than know anything about Newfoundland and Labrador, including the people who live under Bragdon's iron-fisted ruled (let's just say, he makes the zoo train run on time).

But the real connection is that Bragdon is as obsessed by Newfoundland and Labrador as I am. Just ask him about the time he spent in jail in Grand Falls.

It's always nice to meet someone who knows the Rock means this

and not just this

So what better way to overcome a lousy week than to kick back over a dinner of cod, turnips, and parsnips and talk about the Rock?

I trotted out The Newfoundland and Labrador Book of Everything (and they do mean everything . . . on page 43 we learn "there were no chipmunks on the island of Newfoundland before 1962." Who knew? Moreover, who cared? Besides a few competitive squirrels, perhaps).

I also displayed my extensive collection of back issues of Downhome. Bragdon, ever the politicians, was immediately drawn to the January 2007 guest column by current Premier Danny Williams outlining the political agenda for the province, where the unemployment rate in the province is about 16%.

"Gee, do you think he'll focus on economic revitalization?" wondered Bragdon.
"Re implies there was economic vitality in the past," I pointed out.

But what the good people of Newfoundland and Labrador lack in fiscal solvency or employment opportunity they more than make up for friendliness. On September 11th, when the US closed all its airports, thirty-eight jetliners were forced to land in Gander, Newfoundland. Almost seven thousand passengers and crew members, displaced in a town with a population of ten thousand. While America was saying, "These planes may not come into our airspace, they might have terrorists on board," Gander was converting its schools, government buildings, Lion's Club, and houses of worship into emergency shelters. The locals were cooking up meals and lending their linens and even their clothing so the seven thousand strangers could eat and sleep and have something clean to wear. When passengers needed showers, townspeople brought them home - or just told them to drop in whenever they wanted, since the front door was never locked and there was always a stack of clean towels in cupboard.

"Is this the book about Gander?" Brandon asked, pawing my copy of The Day the World Came to Town, which details the whole 9/11 in Gander tale, right down to the CEO of Hugo Boss, stranded between Milan and New York City, having to shop for off the rack underpants at the local Wal-Mart.

"Yes," I said. "You have to read it. I laughed, I cried, it was better than Cats." I read the book in one afternoon, which I never do. Bragdon read a good chunk of it on my couch. He even took notes.

The most amazing part of the story is realizing what it must have been like to be on one of those planes, landing in a strange place only to be told about the terrorist attack in the US. It was terrifying enough to watch it all from home on the TV news, but to be trapped in a place you'd never heard of at such a scary and isolating time . . . and then to find out it is populated by the kindest, most welcoming people in the world. What better way to restore one's faith in humanity.

So yeah, I had a crap week, but the sun is out and the dinner was fun, and the February issue of Downhome magazine just arrived. I will survive . . .

City of Rosenaks (and chocolaty snacks)

Why do I love Portland? Because David Rosenak called me yesterday.

Summer 2006: I go to the Oregon Biennial at the Portland Art Museum. Most of the stuff I find underwhelming, but there are a few artists who really stick out in my mind. The person who made the big bang out of gummi candies. The person who created the interior of a donut store by carving out vinyl contact paper. And the guy who made these quiet, stunning, totally representational small paintings of Portland backyards.

Late 2006/Early 2007: I want to buy my honey a present. Something really special. And I can't get those paintings out of my head. I've never bought a painting before. So this is a big deal. This could mean I am a grown up. Not to mention on my way to being a Medici, a patron of the arts.

I try googling the artist, but all the links seem to be for the artistic director of the performing space at Bloomfield College in New Jersey. Not my guy. I go to PAM, comb the giftshop for the Biennial catalog, discover I have the artist's name right, but there is no gallery or other contact info for him. The woman at the giftshop takes my name and number, checks with someone in curatorial, calls back to say they don't know if he's represented. Finally I call the only person with the name in the Portland phone book, and leave a voicemail saying, "I'm hoping this is the the same David Rosenak who is a painter. Whose work I saw in the Oregon Biennial. I really liked it. I'd like to maybe buy a piece." More than Medici am I! No mere patron of the arts. I am a STALKER of the arts.

Within a few hours, I get a voicemail back. It's the right guy. He's flattered. But he doesn't sell his work. He doesn't get to paint very much, and it takes him so long to amass work, and so he likes to hold onto it.

(This, btw, is the one advantage of being a writer. You can have my work and I can too. If someone would publish my novel, then hopefully everyone including Oprah could have a copy, and it wouldn't be any less in my possession. But not so for visual artists - they sell it, and it's gone - someone else has it. Of course, that beats the performance artists. They perform it, and it's gone - and nobody has it.)

David Rosenak does invite me to come by his studio sometime, if I want. Which I never do. I save the message for a while, thinking maybe I will go, but at some point the voicemail somehow gets deleted.

And then yesterday, a year later, David Rosenak calls. Because he's saved my message all this time. And he's calling to ask if maybe I wouldn't mind him putting me on the mailing list he has, for when he shows work. Which he hardly ever does, so it wouldn't be so burdensome to be on the list. He also apologizes for leaving me a message before, rather than waiting to speak to me directly.

Last night we went to a tamale party. The party was packed. The serving platters were not. Tamales were coming out in batches of 25 tamales every 30 minutes. You have never seen a ravaging bunch of tamale waiting like this in your life. I've been to true East LA tamale parties, pots that cook a hundred unbelievably spicy good tamales at once. In Portland, the tamales are slower coming, and while they were lovingly handcrafted and perfectly fine to eat, they weren't hot tamales in any sense of spice or excitement.

But while we were waiting for those tamales, we all talked. Old friends and complete strangers, everyone talked to everyone. I talked to a chocolatier about literature about the holocaust, great places for a ladies' weekend away, and her mother's recent trip to the ER. I talked to a school nurse about an artist who handcrafts viewmaster reels. I talked to a politician about the time he hitchhiked through Newfoundland during a winterbreak in college.

I talked to a lawyer in the juvenile justice system about being a starving artist. She was asking about my writing, and telling me about when she used to be an actress. It turns out she and I lived in the same neighborhood in LA, during the same gang war. We compared notes - her block got strafed in some of the drive-bys. Our alley was used to dump bodies. With tamales nowhere in sight, I ate a big piece of chocolate cake (think of it as "pressert," the hostess, who was enjoying a corn-infused facial steam in the kitchen, said), and thought about why I love Portland.

And then I came home to David Rosenak's email:
You've probably received this note because you gave me an email address when you visited my studio recently when Troy Studios had an open house. I thought I'd let you know that one of the paintings you saw (crummy jpeg attached) will be displayed as part of the annual unjuried City/County employee art show "All The Art That Fits" in the Portland Building's lobby exhibition space from December 20th through January 25th. (I'd tell you who the other participating artist are, but I won't know until the show opens on Thursday). It's true that you just saw this painting but I don't show much so I'm plugging it for all it's worth (besides, this is the first time I've assembled an art notification list and I want to try out my new toy). The painting was unframed when you saw it and now it's framed and looks sharp, if I may say so, if that helps (it may also be unfinished, but that's another story).

I may have mentioned this, but in case I didn't: a couple of my paintings are now hanging with the Portland Art Museum's permanent collection of contemporary Northwest art on the 4th floor of the old wing (across from a couple of pieces by the great Michael Brophy, I'm happy to say). You may remember these paintings from the Biennial if you caught it last year.

Okay. Anyway, thanks for your interest -- the open house was fun and I'll let you know when it comes around again (though you are welcome to visit anytime). When it does I won't have made much progress in the studio but at least I'll have snacks -- chocolaty snacks.

City of Roses and Rosenak and such, how I love thee. And chocolate.