Magic Ring Part 2

"Ice on my fingers and my toes and I'm a Taurus"

On a bright wintery afternoon a few weeks ago, I decided I wanted to take some photographs of Dizzy. Inspired by Madmen, I posed her serving cocktails and dressed like a housewife from the 1950s. I was looking for a creative way to tell her that I thought she was beautiful. And also for an excuse to boss her around for an hour. To complete her costume, I figured she needed a rock on her finger. And since I was serving as temporary custodian of a family heirloom, I slipped the owl-cut diamond ring onto her finger. I made it very clear that this was a game. I was not being a bastard about it. Putting a diamond ring onto someone's finger without clear rules and expectations is not okay in my book.

Innocent fun was had... which led to less innocent fun. But first, Dizzy slid the ring off of her finger and handed it to me. I remember setting it on the low shelf opposite my bed, thinking "I'll put it back in its box in an hour or two."

Two days later I remembered the ring. In an "Oh crap, I forgot to remember" moment, I rushed to the shelf to retrieve it and put it safely back where it belonged. I also resolved that I would make it a priority to get that thing over to Amy so I don't have to be responsible for it anymore. The ring, however, was gone. An immediate sense of confusion and concern set in. I retraced steps. I laid on my bed and tried to recreate exactly where I had set the ring down. As I had trouble remembering the exact chain of events, I resolved to just search my entire bedroom. I pulled the shelf away from the wall. I got a flashlight and scanned every inch beneath my bed. I examined every surface of shelving. I pulled back the blankets and sheets and shook them out. Nothing.

Now I was starting to feel a little panic, so I called Diz and asked her if maybe she had moved it somewhere without telling me... or if she had a clearer recollection of exactly where I put it. She didn't have any new information, but she agreed to come help me look later that afternoon. For the rest of the morning I searched. I pulled out my laundry basket and rooted through every pocket. I went through every drawer in Dizzy's side table/dresser. I started having crazy thoughts, so I went and looked in the freezer. I looked in the bathroom medicine cabinet. I looked in the water tank on the back of my toilet.

When help arrived I was already starting to lose faith. We worked for a couple of hours cleaning my whole house. Diz kept reassuring me that it would turn up. The reassurances seemed like tired platitudes however. As I finished the dishes, vacuumed the carpets (and searched through the vacuum bag), and tidied up every area of the apartment... I knew it was hopeless. There was just no reason for the ring to be gone. The sheer absurdity of its disappearance convinced me that it would never show up. I thought about my mother putting her faith in me to deliver this ring. I thought about the sadness I would be causing my sister. I tried to put a cash value on the whole thing... imagining that maybe $5,000 would make my sister forget my stupidity. All these thoughts plagued me as I crawled around on my hands and knees looking for that tell-tale sparkle of a diamond in my peripheral vision. I cursed my stupidity in waiting so long to deliver it to my sister. I cursed my temptation of fate by having Dizzy wear the ring for our photo shoot. I held my head in my hands and felt a growing despair and nausea creep in. Losing this ring was going to cause so much unhappiness in the world. It was gone and I had no one to blame but myself. I felt like a useless, worthless turd. I imagined never speaking to my sister or my mother again out of shame.

As I was concluding the search, I needed to take out the trash. I knew that I couldn't throw anything away without a thorough search. Otherwise, I would always wonder if I accidentally threw it out with the garbage. I sat at my computer going through the dustbin I keep nearby. I was transferring everything to a paper bag, going through wadded up packing supplies, floor sweepings, candy wrappers and disgusting old food containers. Halfway down the trashcan, perched on a Twix bar wrapper I remember buying three weeks prior while meeting my old friend Chris Holland for dinner, I saw the ring. It sat there. Nonchalant.

The ring refused to tell me how the hell it got there. It refused to make any excuses for its behavior at all. I stared at it, my jaw slightly agape. It stared back at me, equally dumb. In disbelief, I plucked it from its strange moorings, saw the little crack in the lower shank where the gold band had been bent and rebent too many times. It was real. I had found it... after completely losing all hope! I laughed. I ran to kiss Diz and tell her I was redeemed!

After this, I held the ring with a strange mistrust. I knew it was a fickle thing. I placed it gingerly into its box. I placed the box in a well-lit shelf in my living room where I could spy it easily. I made arrangements to go visit my sister immediately, and I invited no one into my apartment before going to see her. On the day I drove up to the Kingston/Edmonds ferry I put the jewelry box into a zip-up breast pocket on my coat ensuring that I could feel it at all times.

My sister and my nephew and I sat at a table in the Drifter's Tavern each with a pint of beer. After all the appropriate small talk, I told her I had something for her... something entrusted to me by our mother. I pulled the small box out of my pocket and saw Amy's hands tremble. She set down her Budweiser. I looked sideways at the box and told her the story related to me about the ring and about our aunt's decision that it should belong to her. I laughed about how it made me nervous to go through US Customs with it... and I told her the story of how I thought I had lost it. I joked that this would just "increase the history and curiosity of the heirloom." Finally, I opened the box and reached it out to her.

Amy could not speak for some time. Her eyes filled with tears. She told me about the significance of the ring and how it was a powerful memory of her love for our grandmother. She put the ring on her finger for a second and immediately took it off as if she couldn't bear to actually wear it. We sat for another hour at the bar and drank two more pints before I returned to the ferry dock. I was filled with a sense that our family, however fragmented, still had bonds. I thought about how much I loved my nephew as he sat with us, unwittingly representing a whole new generation with their own history to make. And oddly, I felt proud. Proud that I had played some small little role in the destiny of this ring and in the powerful emotions between my beloved sister and our long-dead family matriarch.

When I related this story in detail to my friend Walter, he had a surprisingly mystical take on it. He told me that perhaps my ordeal of losing the ring was the Universe's way of making me empathize with how my sister had felt for years. I had never considered this, but it immediately struck me as profoundly accurate. I don't know if the ring will give my sister the sense of relief that I felt... if it will bolster her sense of being loved and connected to a family... if it will make her feel like laughing and kissing the loved ones around her... but I hope it will. I hope that my grandmother's unquestionable love for her and for all of us is so strongly imbued into that ring that it feels like the best hug imaginable.

Magic Ring Part 1

The day I left Mexico, about to fly back to Seattle, my mother pulled me aside. Pressing a small wine-colored box into my hands, she said she had an important mission for me. Inside the box was a diamond ring, a family heirloom. Known as an owl-cut diamond, the gemstone was somewhat rare now. This shape, designed to evoke an owl's eye, had fallen out of style. A simple and elegant gold band showcased the stone's luster. I understood the faith she was putting in me and tucked the jewelry box into my carry-on.

The ring needed to belong to my older sister. Amy grew up with a powerful attachment to that ring and to our grandmother. My matriarchal grandmother Patricia (or Nana as we knew her) had slipped the ring onto Amy's fingers dozens of times and beamed her impossible smile and sparkled her impossible eyes. Nana told her the ring would be hers someday and that no other girl would ever have it. My grandmother felt the need to make all of us grandchildren feel special. She took each of us aside at various times and told us that we were destined for special things, that we came from special stock, and that she loved us best of all. Her words had a tendency to pit us all against each other at times, but it was her way.

When my grandmother died about ten years ago her estate was left to my mother and my aunt. The pair had a mixed relationship... and unsurprisingly, they weren't very amicable about this. Perhaps my grandmother's words had sewn some discontent between the two of them as well. Since my aunt lived in the same house as my grandmother, most of the heirlooms remained with her. Some of the jewelry, reportedly, had trickled down to my aunt's oldest daughter. But my sister heard nothing about the ring. And my mother had given up advocating for her.

Many years passed and my sister lost hope that she would ever wear the ring again or remember that feeling of being Nana's oldest and most treasured grandchild. The family seemed so fractured since Nana's passing... There was no talk of reunions and it seemed there never would be. The settling of the estate played a small but palpable role in that schism.

Things evolved however. I knew nothing of this, but apparently my aunt decided to give a number of treasures to my mother... with an understanding that the ring be given to Amy. So when I visited my folks last January my mother entrusted me with the job of putting this ring into my dear sister's hands. I knew little of this history at the time. I did not know about my aunt's change of heart, or of my grandmother's tender promises so many years hence.

When I arrived in Seattle I left the ring, safe in its box, on my bookshelf. I knew I would have occasion to deliver it before long. I was in no great hurry.

Soul Brother Sessions

Down low, almost flat on the floor, the camera sees things differently. It shoots the smile on a dog but never the teeth.

As we drilled past the meridian, the shutter speeds were epic. I held my breath for a full five seconds. And I offered up praise to the universe for all of my blankets. The haze was nothing if not warm. I closed my eyes. I felt a community of languid heartbeats. And finally my exposure was complete.


Soul Brother #1


Soul Brother #2

And so the World Must be Remade

As I wrote over at the Little Spark blog, it's the end of an era. Shortly after my last blog post on November 10th, my five-year romantic relationship with Olaiya ended. A week later I announced this momentous change to the universe by updating my Facebook status. The world has come undone, so the world must be remade.

The last two months have been spent thinking about what stays and what blows. I find myself lacking so much and wondering how to replace what's been lost, and about how to staunch the bleeding after half my identity has been ripped away. But the process has come with surprising clarity. I knew I needed to reorder my space (my apartment and my head.) I knew I needed to reconnect with things that I'd lost along the way. I needed to remember laughter at dinner parties and game nights, art projects, exercise, music, and what it feels like to have a good day at work. I built myself a new bed frame. I scoured craigslist for comfortable chairs and found coffee mugs at Value Village. I reached out for help from old friends and found it easily given and comforting.

I remembered this blog... and how, despite being on life support, it's actually older than my relationship with Olaiya. And it is something that I wish to return to. But to do that, I think I have to examine the roots and the trunk of this old tree. I don't want to breath life into new branches or paint vibrant Spring leaves until I'm satisfied with what's already here.

So my next project, self-indulgent though it may be, will be to go back and reread every Stave It Off entry, eliminating the boring, the unworthy, the pointless. I know there are posts that I'm proud of and I will leave those standing, but I may have also written a post or two about what I was intending to have for lunch that day. Those must die. I don't know if the urge to write will return in earnest, but I know what it feels like when your house is out of order... how impossible it feels to do anything when you don't even know if you own a can-opener anymore. It feels good and necessary when you buy that new can-opener. I spent a half hour picking it out after looking at four different models. If nothing else happened that day, I know that I took that small step in remaking my world.

Just as I have redesigned my apartment to match my tastes and my needs, so I will reorder my online diary. Maybe I'll repost old favorites to Facebook in the hopes that a reader or two will also enjoy the fruits of this exercise.

Unemployment Blues

Having wrestled, and having been overcome, by the unemployment benefits angels of the State of Washington, I have the following report of the battle:

I applied for benefits in the middle of April. I filled out the application and began making weekly claims at that time. Additionally I was required to fill out job logs detailing at least three employment contacts per week. Within three weeks I received a letter of denial, explaining that my reasons for quitting the position were not within the legal guidelines for being awarded benefits. According to the relevant RCW, quitting due to an inappropriate change in job description is not sufficient reason.

I appealed the denial, and today (almost two months since first applying) I had my telephone trial with an appeals judge in Olympia. After calling in at 8:50 AM, the trial began at 10:30 and lasted until 11:30. I based my appeal on two acceptable provisions within the RCW: That I left the position due to health consequences (depression and anxiety) that stemmed directly from changes in my job description; and that I was unable to perform my job within the ethical standards of the National Association of Social Workers due to the same changes.

Toward the end of the trial, the judge made it clear that the WACs that govern the RCWs demand that if you quit due to medical necessity, you must first provide written documentation of that disability to your employer so that they have an opportunity to accommodate your needs. This makes sense, and also completely scuttled the bulk of my appeal. The fact that I didn't quite understand the nature or extent of the psychological toll I was enduring at the time of my resignation did not matter.

By the time I attempted to address the ethical concerns I had about the changes in job description, the judge's language made it pretty clear that she thought this case was settled and was already writing her decision summary in her mind. And although she didn't explicitly state what her decision would be, everything she said implied that the decision would go against me.

So be it. I didn't count on getting any benefits when I quit. I quit to save my sanity and to pursue greater professional fulfillment. I quit because those who love me gave me strength by telling me that they believed in me and would support me. I quit in order to force a next chapter in my life to reveal itself. Maybe now that this unemployment benefit segue has resolved itself, that will come sooner rather than later.

And after listening to my former director's testimony during the phone trial... "I was quit when I walked in here. I'm twice as quit now."

Streimikes Comes Alive

Four days under the Mozama sun playing tennis will do wonders for the soul. Sadly, O wasn't able to play this year. She trained hard, joining teams, taking private lessons and bumping her game into the 2.5 ranks. She was ready to destroy this tourney, but injured her knee just a week before we were scheduled to drive to Eastern Washington. Half the fun comes from getting out of town, enjoying some blissful weather and spending a bunch of time with a gracious, funny group of people. So Olaiya gracefully accepted that she'd have to wait another year to join the invitational, but came with me to cheer us on, take photos and work on her tan.

I was paired up with Andy, who didn't have much experience but a wealth of natural talent. Our first match was pathetic though. I let us down by playing tight. Never feeling comfortable, I couldn't let loose with my shots. It seemed like I couldn't hit a single volley all day. We limped into the consolation bracket after falling 6-3.

I took a fresh attitude into day two. Having a beer earlier in the day might have helped. Andy and I played much better in this match, eventually prevailing 7-5.

The Good Guys

The Bad Guys

Our Host and Line Judge Kelly Fulcher

The running forehand was working!

The lunging backhand was working!

The standing backhand was working!

The overhead volley was working!

The post-game congratulatory handshake was working too!

The victory over Matt and Cathy put us into the consolation bracket finals: The Chump Cup. This match was just as vigorous as the previous, but Andy and I outlasted Lee and Donna 7-6 (7-3) in a tiebreaker.

I returned to Seattle a happy man. And Olaiya is even more determined to hone her game so she can win the whole shebang next year. In the meantime I expect she'll be giving me all the practice I can handle.

Lists

Inspired by this song by The Dining Rooms, I starting thinking of my own list of "Hiphopper... Punk Rockers". But in my version they are called "Truth Farmers... Snake Charmers". It's a pleasant way to kill an evening or two... sitting around and reflecting on the artists, writers, film makers and musicians that have brought great joy and meaning to your life. Here is my silent tribute to the list.

Can you spot the crossover between my list and the song?

Harry Dean Stanton
Robert Pirsig
David Lee
Carl Rogers
Jaime Hernandez
Chris Ware
Alan Moore
Elliott Smith
Thick Nhat Hanh
Mike Mignola
Sylvia Plath
Dave Chappelle
H. Jon Benjamin
Matt Groening
Jill Scott
Built to Spill
Jay Smooth
Howe Gelb
John Darnielle
Spike Jonze
Annie Lennox
Michel Gondry
Laurie Anderson
Kent Williams
Bill Murray
Jim Jarmusch
Charlie Kaufman
The Coen Brothers
Sigur Ros
Feargus Urquhart
Pedro Almodovar
Chris Sands
Philip Pullman
Michael Cera
Pharaoh Sanders
Tony Kushner
Wes Anderson
Philip Seymour Hoffman
Aubrey Beardsley
Nusrat Fateh Ali Khan
Tom Waits
Will Shortz
The Dirty 3
Rennie Sparks
Joss Whedon
Ian McKellen
David Byrne
Mark Lanegan
Paul Thomas Anderson
Ze Frank
Spalding Gray
Sherman Alexie
Brad Neely
Reggie Watts

More Photos about Buildings and Flowers

Photos de mi Sobrino

Danny menaced the beach with his general badassery


Danny then rocked the beach's socks off


Bob and Cher take in Danny's awesomeness


A plague of darkness falls upon the land in honor of Danny's power


This was followed by a plague of lizard-painted butterflies

After the plagues, Danny expressed his displeasure with some nearby crips


I was honored to have this single photo taken with "El Chingador de Todos Santos"

Attempting to Join the 21st Century

Audio/Visual technology, once an area of expertise, has left me behind. In the bowels of my apartment building, I'm storing tangled masses of RCA cables, various adapters, switch boxes, ethernet cables, patchcords and speaker wire. I have no less than three boxes full of these accessories. 20 years ago, I was a video toaster guy. Then I was overdubbing audio on super-VHS dubbing decks. 15 years ago, I went through a turntable revival period and picked up any pair of oversized headphones I could find at garage sales. I rocked a Tascam 4-track until I could upgrade to my Fostex. I bought early on full-duplex sound cards and digital multi-track recording technology. And I bit hard on MP3 when it first appeared.

But now, I'm a dinosaur. I feel like one of those old college roommates of mine that needed help connecting their computer to their stereo. I've avoided iPhones, X-Boxes, and HDTV. My router busted, and I never replaced it... so I can't even offer wi-fi to my house guests. And I've never synced my Outlook calendar to anything. I'm an embarrassment to A/V geekdom.

So this week, I'm taking a plunge. I just ordered a 40" LCD HDTV. They've been driven all the way down into the troposphere by the emergence of LED technology and the attraction of 120Hz and 240Hz models. To maximize its powers, I ordered a Blu-Ray player that also streams movies straight from Netflix. To enable this option, I had to purchase a wireless router. I guess I'm going to have to figure out an awful lot of stuff in the next few weeks. But I still haven't read the manual for my digital camera... so I'm hoping that 90% of this stuff is intuitive to an old A/V guy like myself.

Photographic Evidence

The Olympics are still beautiful and mysterious. Here's a first series of photos of the trip. These are the "artsy" ones. Snapshots of Olaiya and me will come later.



Pipe Organ



Clown Fish



Polish



Topography



Coffin Mates



Pancakes



Depth



Stark



Deep

You Can't Fall Off a Mountain

Olaiya and I are off to the woods. The Olympic peninsula beckons, with its lush Hoh River Valley rainforest, turquoise waters of Lake Crescent and labyrinthine bunkers high atop the hills of Fort Worden. We'll take the whole work week to hike and camp and cook simple meals over a single butane flame. To prepare, I've dug my tent and sleeping bag out of storage and purchased/borrowed strange devices: signifiers of manhood and independence: a compass, a pocketknife, waterproof matches, iodine pills, 100' of sturdy rope.

I remember backpacking with my parents when I was just 13... and going later with high school friends Andres, Calvin and Garrett. Arcane challenges like building a fire in damp conditions or nagivating a waist high river rekindle something in me. In my mind, I'm already riding the flume. I'm running down the mountain. I'm John Muir mixing it up with an avalanche. I know it won't be like that anymore. I'm too old and smart to leave the trail behind and get into any real trouble, but getting out of Seattle for a while and into some moss-covered riverbanks sounds like the perfect prescription for all my urban anxiety and fretting about health-care reform. Please don't blow up civilization while I'm gone.

Not Gonna Do It

I was just Googling the lyrics to Kodachrome, so that I could create a Paul Simon-referencing title for this post. I couldn't remember if he sang, "I love to take the photographs" or "I love to take a photograph." What I quickly discovered on Google is that everybody and their cousin has used that line on the main page of the photo blog or Flickr account, so I'll restrain myself.

I got a Nikon camera. A D60 SLR. It's the nicest camera I'll probably ever own. I broke it in at the last Little Spark event... and the early results look promising. I don't have any idea how to use the advanced features yet. The manual is a 190 page beast that I'll probably read in chunks over the next year. But the low-light color balance seems a million times better than my old camera. Not to mention the better shutter speeds, autofocusing mechanism, etc. New pics will be up on the Little Spark blog within a day or so. Now all I need is a snazzy zoom lens!



Update: Here's my first low-light food pic: A margherita pizza from Delancey's Little Spark Event. Looks pretty appetizing to me (even without any Photoshopping!)

My Movie Has a Trailer!

Last August I got to be an extra in a major motion picture. The film, World's Greatest Dad, apparently did okay at Sundance, and I'm hoping it'll be in a theater near me someday soon. Warning! The trailer is approved for "Restricted Audiences Only" and may offend your delicate sensibilities.

Rethinking Life's Many Choices

For the last several years, my softball jersey has sported the number 17 on the back (in honor of the great Mark Grace) and has been adorned with the name "Grasshopper". My team, Happy Hour, had the brilliant idea of putting drink names on backs of our jerseys. So instead of picking Harvey Wallbanger or Velvet Hammer #2... or any other overtly baseball-related name... I went with Grasshopper. I was playing centerfield at the time, so Grasshopper was sort of apt. I think the drink is made with creme de menth and is probably disgusting. But I didn't pick the name because of the beverage or its relation to playing the outfield. I chose it almost entirely because of David Carradine's character in the TV show Kung Fu.

Kwai Chang Caine (nicknamed "Grasshopper") was one of the great pulpy influences on my childhood formation of what it meant to be masculine and heroic. He represented integrity, fortitude, sacrifice, quiet intensity, and the mysterious, exotic powers granted to those who practice the extreme self-discipline of the Orient. He was a beacon of honor in a dusty land of outlaws and harsh realities. He was an idealist surviving in a land hellbent on crushing the nobility out of any man. His dignity was unflappable. He was my hero.



And now he's dead. Found naked in the closet of his Bangkok hotel room with shoestrings tied around his neck and genitals. Nice. Way to destroy my universe David. I can't tell you how much I'm looking forward to the ridicule I'm going to face at softball this Sunday wearing my Grasshopper jersey.

Costume Idea for Olaiya

I'm lobbying for Olaiya to be Bessie Coleman for this year's Halloween festivities. Who's Bessie Coleman you ask. Well, it's long past February, but here's your black history lesson for the month!

"Bessie was the first Black woman to earn a pilots license in America. No flight school would accept her in the US because she was Black, so she learned to fly in France. Bessie performed spectacular air shows across the US and her fearless spirit and flare for drama made her queen of the air. Tearing up the skies with her daredevil dives, barnstorming Bessie Coleman flew low and zoomed high. Audiences gasped when Bessie performed barrel rolls and the wings of her plane touched the tips of the clouds like a bird on high." (From Dolls Like Me.)

For a much more thorough and touching story of her triumphs and tragic death, check out her Wikipedia entry. I'm a sucker for barnstormers to begin with, but "Queen" Bessie's combination of intelligence, fortitude, courage, audacity and beauty seems storybook perfect. It's a wonder Hollywood hasn't exploited this yet. I guess there was a 2008 musical about her (titled Barnstormer) so maybe a feature film isn't far behind.

If anyone has any 1920's aviation gear to donate to Olaiya's costume, let me know. (And yes, I know everyone will ask if she's supposed to be Amelia Earhart... I think she'll have to have a patch on her jacket that says "Bessie".)



I know Olaiya would love to rock a pair of those boots.





A couple of close ups in full aviator dress.


Bessie's soft-focus glamour shot!

And maybe Olaiya can reuse some of the clothes to dress up as Zoe from Firefly the following year?

What Started as a Simple Movie Review

I have now seen Watchmen four times. Never before in my life have I seen a movie four times in the theater. Under the right conditions, I would even see it again. During the latest viewing, I picked up a few details that I had previously missed... some subtle inside jokes happening in the background or a nuance to a portrayal. But I didn't really see it in the hopes of noticing more... I saw it in the hopes that it would still impact me emotionally. And sure enough, even though I know every line of dialogue and every stunt and every cheesy comic book pose that the characters strike, I still cry every time.

I am somewhat stunned by that. It seems out of character for me. I don't really have a list of favorite tearjerker movies. So I sat down and tried to think of what other movies have hooked me emotionally time after time. There's really only one. And I'm not proud of it. It isn't exactly a good movie; it just speaks to me.

The film is called Powder. It was released when I was about 18 years old. It's a tragic fantasy tale revolving around a young man with a strange kinship to electricity. He is ash white and completely bald (he's the embodiment of electrolysis.) His "powers" are that he can manipulate magnetic fields and the electricity running through power lines. Incredibly sensitive and intelligent, he feels like an alien in our modern brutal society. It ends in bittersweet tragedy.


This is Powder

When I realized that Powder was the only other movie I had seen more than three times that still brings out tears, I was startled. There is a marked similarity between Powder's main character and the character in Watchmen that I feel the most emotional resonance with: Dr. Manhattan.



This is Dr. Manhattan

Both are completely bald. Both exude a kind of post-human quality, with the twin traits of extreme mental prowess and electrical/magnetic manipulation (though Manhattan's powers are of an atomic nature and near godlike in their capacity.) Both are baffled by the human drive toward cruelty, violence and chaos. Both ultimately choose to leave this world behind in a self-sacrificing but redeeming gesture. I suppose they could be considered aloof Christ figures. (If Jesus had been more intellectually detached and bald as a naked molerat, maybe I'd be a Christian!)

I don't know what this means exactly, but it strikes me as a significant insight into my own personal mythology. Whatever these characters represent must be profound for me at some level, conscious or subconscious. And what if I told you that one of my other favorite comic book heros was this guy?!

Blogging about Blogging and What I Had for Lunch

Updating Stave It Off has become embarrassingly erratic. I'm having a creative crisis when it comes to determining what should be considered worthwhile content. I've long refused to write about the minutia of my day or even give voice to the sorts of "random thoughts" posts I once indulged twice a week. Sadly, having higher standards seems to have resulted in only posting once or twice a month. It's only rarely that I feel like fleshing out a full-fledged essay (or bothering to play with alliteration in a sentence.) And even if I'm playing more guitar these days, I'm not exactly planning to post a new song each week.

I could fill these pages with the news that yesterday was very sunny, and I played tennis for the first time this year. I could comment that I'm preparing to brew my own beer (I'm in a bottle gathering stage - collecting five gallons worth of resealable "flip-top" bottles.) I could tell you that I'm excited about the onset of softball season. I could babble on and on about how nervous I am about the prospect of trying to buy a house this year.

Or I could post links to cool videos and let YouTube do my job:



Soapy says he already posted this last summer, but I discovered its glory last night.
Also, I had the vegan chicken salad from Madison Market and a multi-grain roll for lunch today.

But frankly, I'm my own most consistent reader, and I bore myself when I write about these things.

Mexico Revisited

My second trip to Mexico was a more relaxing and rejuvenating sort of vacation than the first. My parents' house is complete now, and the guest accommodations are perfect... like private motel rooms in the downstairs part of the house. So I slept better, and also had a place to curl up, pull out my laptop, and check my email. My mom finally has a full kitchen to use, and there's a makeshift studio and theater room upstairs.

We spent a fair amount of time down at the beach, where Danny learned how to surf and I wiped out a few times before giving up. As you can see, crowds aren't exactly a problem around Todos Santos.



Here's a shot of somebody's house... built atop a cliff near the beach. The sun was setting behind their place... creating this silhouette of their humble abode.



February in southern Baja feels like mid-summer in Seattle. There was even fully-bloomed flora to prove it.



During a day trip to La Paz, I took some snaps of people and graffiti. This is the only shot worth a damn though.



That's it for my photographs from Mexico.

Sun Dreams

Walked to work today in the snow. After a week of bitter sub-freezing cold, we finally got a bit of precipitation to turn everything white. This is easily the coldest winter I can remember.

Which is why it feels so good to know that I've booked my tickets to Mexico. In just over a week I'll be flying down to Los Cabos with my nephew. I've never been one to soak in the sun or try to get a tan... but nothing sounds better right now than slathering myself up with coconut oil and roasting myself to a nice brown.

Until then... I have this: