Hometown heroism

(Thanks, Ryan, for the image!)

So now I'm starting to sound like a real hometown hero with all this puffing up of Seattle, but did you see Prevention Magazine's list of the top 100 "Most Walkable Cities"?

According to the story, which I saw on CNN,

Factors contributing to the ranking were air quality, the percentage of people who walk to work, access to parks, number of athletic shoes sold, and (believe it or not) weather.

While I'm here singing its praises, I might as well also mention that the city falls on the top ten list of "greenest cities", according to Green Magazine, which takes into consideration not the scenery, but the environmental policy, air and water quality and long-term sustainability strategy of a city.

All this "top ten" stuff got me thinking, though. What lists wouldn't we see Seattle on? I'll open the floor, but will throw a few out there to get the ball rolling:

"Best places to live if you hate hippies"
"Top 10 best cities in which to drive a stick-shift"
"Best places to open up a coffee shop"
"Most dendrophobic and technophobic-friendly cities"

Armoires and Wendy's: good ideas gone bad

Once you’ve moved (as in switching condos, apartments or houses) once or twice, it’s difficult to imagine what (outside of perhaps a flesh-eating bacteria on your face, being locked in a tanning bed or drinking bleach) on this earth is worse.

I helped move a friend yesterday, which is why I mention it. Well, actually, I mention it because I feel like an eighty year old man. Everything is stiff, from my shoulders to my knees. I can barely turn my head due to a tussle with a 400-lb armoire and there are apparently muscles in my forearms that are necessary for pretty much every finger movement, including lifting, gripping, and typing. I know this because these exact muscles are, at this moment, as i type these words, on fucking fire.

Ow.

Every time I help a friend move, I decide that’s the last time. Also, every time I move, I decide it’s the last time. Last, that is, until I buy a house, after which THAT move will be the truly final move.

But, of course, I continue these friend-helping and every-9-months-moving things. I lived, for a while, down the street from three Chinese restaurants and two Jiffy Lubes. Have you ever seen a four foot tall and three hundred year old Chinese woman swing a purse at two Mexicans wearing greasy shop clothes and using the word “punta” a lot? I have. Twice. Also, I used to live less than half a mile from a strip club run by the local mafia family that was painted bright pink and had a huge flashing sign with the words “LIVE GIRLS” perpetually on the front, like “DEAD GIRLS” were an option.

Not long ago, I moved from Fremont/Ballard to Kirkland. FreLard is a pretty rad little place, I think. Very close to the water, the city, and two progressive, large universities. A pretty happening place, without being dirty enough that you step on discarded needles on the sidewalk… frequently.

Kirkland, while also on the water, is sorta Yuppie-ville. Pricey, with some fun bars, incredible food, yachts, and a great strip right by the water, but full of these Microsoft geeks with drop-tops, Terminator-in-shiny-clubshirts types with overly-large egos (and biceps to match) and very very rich, spoiled 19 year old boys driving their daddies’ Hummers.

That said, I moved to be 8 (as opposed to 58) minutes from work, and my place has TWO bedrooms, a huge deck, and is walking distance from all the awesome things in Kirkland – the water, the bars, the retaraunts, Hector’s (the hands-down best damn breakfast this side of the country and a bloody Mary that will make you take your clothes off, in a good way), and a Wendy’s (open late!).

I have been smart, in the past, not to live directly behind a Wendy’s.

In my previous residences, I have always lived closer to a market (and, once, an actual vegetable farm) than a fast food restaurant. While this wasn’t by design, it was fortuitous. My new place is directly behind a Wendy’s (which is the best fucking fast food ever, in my opinion, second only to Dicks or White Castle – which is a whole ‘nother story). I am literally two blocks, maybe, from the front door of that shiny mecca of greasy, cheap goodness – (open late!). Also, the walk to the joint is downhill the whole way – a nasty turn of fate that makes it soooo easy to walk there and a red-headed step-bitch to get back home, much less with a value meal tucked in your gut.

My early prediction about this predicament was that a long, bloody battle would ensue between my vegetarianism and Mr. Wendy. There would be casualties, I was sure, and my net time spent at the gym would increase, necessarily, in increments directly related to dollars spent at this hellhole of deliciousness.

So far, I was right on the money. Though I’ve yet to buckle and eat a burger, I have become friendly with the drive through people, who see me coming and start making a baked potato and a side salad, then always ask me if I’d like a sandwich to go with. No, I say, but I’ll take a mini Frosty, please.


I did briefly appear to have won this war, I am proud to say, when the joint came out with that Vanilla Frosty, which tastes like powdered non-dairy milk alternative and gives me drymouth, and is basically an incredibly great fast-food idea gone terribly, awfully wrong. Which sucked for me, because I ordered it once, twice, three times just to be sure it did, in fact, suck as badly as I thought it did the time before. Each time, my worst fears were confirmed. The execution of this new frosty flavor was completely botched.

Unfortunately, after two pissed off weeks on Wendy’s strike, I’m over it, so the war’s back on.

Anyway, back to lessons in moving. Another lesson (in addition to carefully avoiding fast food joints when selecting your new neighborhood) I learned when moving to Kirkland was this:

Unless you plan to die in the home you currently live in, do not, under ANY CIRCUMSTANCES, purchase an armoire. I was reminded of this lesson this weekend, when I got to move another one – and this time it wasn’t mine, which made it even worse.

On armoires: They’re pretty, yes. They hold stuff, which is how you can justify the purchase at first. But about 4 minutes in to bearing 300 lbs of carefully weathered and whitewashed solid wood armoire directly on your lower back, you start to realize that there is absolutely nothing wrong with a regular old closet. Also, that’s about when the other people you’re carrying this ghastly object with start yelling things like “Careful of the goddamn polished brass knobs!!” and “Holy fuck! Did you hear that pop?! I can’t feel my arm!” and “If I die under this over-priced, hand-crafted piece of shit you just HAD to buy, I swear to God I’ll come back as a pissed-off ghost and haunt the balls off of you in this equally over-priced two-bedroom apartment in the center of Yuppie America!!!”

I am close to certain that my hands are now going to fall off my body, so if this is the last post ever, you know where to find the handless girl.

By the way, if I’m handless, that probably also means I’m thirsty and can’t fasten the buckles on my strappy heels, so please bring over a six pack of Miller light, some bendy straws and a pair of slip-on shoes. And maybe a body pillow or the torso of a mannequin. Because handless girls need love too. And please, DON’T buy an armoire. And if you do, and you ask your pushover friends to help you move it, know that they will, but then their hands will fall off and you’ll eternally be tasked with helping them wipe as karmic payback.

The storm

http://www.mydeo.com/videorequest.asp?XID=12928&CID=60659

The above is a slideshow of the wreckage of what I now refer to as "Apocalypse: Beta", also known as the December 14 storm that hit Seattle with a vengence. This is the storm that caused me to be without power (or a shower) for 4 days, and that taught me how to sanitize my own wastewater for consumption, just in case.

(That wastewater part was, of course, a lie.)

The weird Madonna tunes behind the slideshow need to go, but if you turn the volume down, it's really quite impressive. This storm turned 200-year old trees into toothpicks. That kind of power turns me on a little.

Not really.

Okay, maybe a little.

I'm bringing umbrellas back.

Being a Seattleite, I’ve always turned up my nose at umbrellas. There’s something about them that seems... so high-maintenance, I guess. I’ve long said there are two surefire ways to distinguish real Seattleites from transplants. One is the umbrella. True locals hardly ever carry them, opting instead to run from building to building or – heaven forbid – just let their hair get wet. The second way is look outside on a sunny, but 57 degree, day. All those people with shorts—usually khaki—and sandals—often Birkenstocks or flippies—on? Born n’ raised.

But over the past week, we’ve seen storming like I haven’t seen in years. The rain is at times horizontal, and always coming down in torrential sheets, flooding roads, driveways, highway ditches. It pools over arterials, bringing cars to silent standstills in feet of water, their befuddled drivers sitting in the fast-cooling passenger seat, weighing the options: sit still and wait for the water to seep in, or open the door and get it over with.

There are farms north of my childhood home that flood every year, stranding cows on raised bits of field – like lonely, obese people on very soggy, very small deserted islands – where they moo and low and shuffle and sleep standing awkwardly in circles like they’re waiting for the ark.

Everywhere the world is covered in brown and green reflective surfaces – stretches of still water lying like cold, mirrored blankets over acres of pasture, miles of freeway, hundreds of feet of baseball fields, tracks and mid-suburb playgrounds.

Kids delight in world-class puddle-splashing, as would I if I had a single pair of practical shoes. Instead, I have opened my closet every day for a week considering what I own that won’t leak, bleed, become see-through or smell like a dead sheep if it gets wet, as I have the aforementioned lifetime disdain for umbrellas, the practical but sissy savers of clothing, hair and laptops.

But it’s been seven days and I have had enough. I’ve battled nobly, but I’m just getting too old for this “too good for umbrellas business”.

After I spent last Sunday spent sloshing around downtown “shopping” (seemed more like swimming, honestly) in pointy flat Chanel shoes, I turned a corner. After finally taking refuge with a herd of friends in a bar, I first drank pint after pint while squirming my feet around in their wet shoes and pondering the likelihood they would actually rot, Vietnam soldier-style. Once they dried and thawed, I weighed my options for exiting the building and navigating the wet on a go-forward basis, as I was totally over this whole “soggy’s just a state of mind” thing.

Option one: retain my pride and remain umbrellaless, spending the next three months being slowly drowned alive – a poor option if you consider the associated pain (90 straight days of frizzy hair and runny mascara). Also, with this option, wool sweaters are out, as they are completely horrible-smelling when wet, as is anything white or cream-colored because of their tendency to reveal more than I wish to reveal on the way to work.

Option two: Stay inside until June. In theory, a great concept. That is, until it comes time to pay rent.

Option three: forsake pride, buckle, and buy a goddamn umbrella already.

After about a football game worth of beer and commiserating, my friends and I were prepared to step back out into the gale force winds and two-foot deep puddles.

“Uh, guys?” I said.

They turned.

“I think I’m going to buy an umbrella.”

Openmouth staring. Like I’d just said “I think I was anal probed by an alien life form – and I liked it -- last night”.

But I’d suffered long enough. My flatiron missed me. As did my little cream tweed wool jacket. And although my shoes would remain impractical, I knew the umbrella would save me from the most uncomfortable part of rain of all: that nearly ice-cold raindrop that insists on falling right in that hollow part of your neck where your shirt gaps enough for it to drip, cold and unexpected, onto your collarbone and then trickle down your chest or under your arm, where it leaves a trail of goosebumps and an uncomfortable violated feeling.

I love Seattle, and the rain, and I’m a native if ever there was one. I’m not afraid of plaid or flannel or bums or beards. I have three square cups of coffee a day and would check “athletic” in a box that describes me. I understand the ferry system and I’m proud of the bio-fuel buses. Traffic doesn’t faze me, but I don’t know how to drive a stick shift, and I like to hike, fish, and pet strangers’ dogs. And if I found a wallet, I’d return it to its rightful owner.

But damn it, I’ve walked my last block in the rain. It’s not like it is in the movies, where people are all warm and sexy and beautiful when wet. They’re not. They smell weird, and are clammy, and most of us women, try as we might to make wet look irresistible and carefree, just look like someone gave us a swirly.

So now, I am the proud owner of a gorgeous little polka-dotted umbrella that goes perfectly with my pointy, wet, impractical flats. (And that newly smooth, dry, shiny hair). And you know what? I like it. I feel a little mysterious under an umbrella, like at any moment a stranger might approach me and duck under for a quick makeout session, or tuck a note into the pocket of my trench. It’s that feeling of hotness that comes from being completely and stylishly buttoned up – like that headmistress all the Catholic boys obsessed about in junior high, or the slightly dangerous but undeniably sultry femme fatale in those noir films.

And I like it.

Two laws, one friend and a fresh start.

Legwarmers Law #1,572: The amount of fun Legwarmers is directly correlates to the amount of sun Seattle gets.

Legwarmers Law #1573: Sometimes a good deep-clean can therapeutically jump-start a fresh perspective.

This weekend, I fought a major battle with lameness, initially winning and then, ultimately, losing big-time, but gaining something else entirely.

...

Friday night I had plans with my best friend -- and at about 8 p.m., when I was still sitting on the couch in my workout clothes, glaring at the rain outside, watching some horrible informercial for a heating blender (for four easy payments of $49.95!!) and deep into my third glass of Pino Gris, she called to see when I'd be ready.

Her: "Hey! How are you? When do you want to go out?"
Me: "I dunno, I mean, don't rush over or anything. I really don't care. I'm just sorta vegging out."
Her: "Uh, oh-kay... Um, are you alright?"
Me: "Yeah, I just... ::sigh:: whatever."
Her: "I'm coming over. Good lord, what is wrong with you? Get in the shower, like NOW."

And there she was, about 40 minutes later, pounding down my door and breezing in, sunshine in the form of a companion. She wasn't about to let me mope around, self-medicating in my sweatpants and a self-heating mask and waste a perfectly good, if rainy, Friday night thinking about everything that is, might be or could eventually become dysfunctional in my life.

Always a trooper in the truest sense, she sat on my couch and talked to me while I reluctantly dried my hair. She refilled my glass when it was empty, listened to me rant about any and everything that was driving me crazy, and begged me to take off the belted turtleneck tunic I had chosen in favor of a soft, snug, dark-grey "World Peace" t-shirt and plastic 80's accessories (An off-white headband and bangle) with black Audrey Hepburn flats.

(Too much information, I know, but the outfit was damn cute, and if it weren't for her, I would have arrived at the bar in a cashmere mu-mu, jeans and tall boots -- a good look for Sunday afternoon shopping, photo-touring in Europe, not beer-drinking and dance).

She validated my rants, made me laugh, and lured me out the front door with promises that she would drive -- AND pay for drinks!

Thank goodness for friends who can see through your own bullshit and can rescue you from yourself when you cannot. Her relentless commitment to enjoying the evening bubbled over, infecting me with a giddy sort of pleasure at being out of the house and on a crowded dance floor doing the electric slide to a live (gag) country band, clutching Coronas with lime and occasionally spinning each other around, just for emphasis.

By 2:45, exhausted, we had made the pilgrammage back to my house, and I -- buzzed, happy, and thankful for a good friend -- fell into bed, and sleep.

...

Saturday night, though, I was determined to stay in. This time, though, I wouldn't be rescued. I told my best friend I was staying in, put the phone on silent, lit some candles, opened a nice bottle of Syrah, and settled in for a nice long evening of my favorite thing:

CLEANING PARTY!!

I'm sorry, I can't help it. A couple days a month I get this insatiable urge to just clean the bejeezus out of my living space -- this goes beyond the regular weekly cleaning and laundry days. It takes them, in fact, to a whole 'nother level. On my cleaning benders, I actually clear my closet of un-worn items, bagging them and preparing them for donation to charity. I do huge loads of laundry, I sprinkle carpet freshener all over my house, waiting the requisite 30 minutes to vaccum it up (making sure the little vaccum lines are perfectly straight, mind you) and climb into the tub, where I Ajax until I might pass out from the fumes.

Disinfecting wipes? Check.
Hands-and-knees scrubbing of floors? Check.
Cat-hair removal? Check.
Leather couch oiling and buffing? Check.
Intense desk, closet, shelf and kitchen organizing? You got it.

I cleaned to my little heart's content, exhausting my arms and legs in various crouching, scrubbing positions, and actually breaking a sweat. Then, I rewarded myself with a long bath, a clean hotel robe, 5 chapters of a new and fabulous book, and two Tylenol P.M.'s. (Note: do not try this at home. You're not supposed to take those after you've had a drink. But if you decide to, be sure you can devote at least 8 hours to sleep, don't operate machinery, and be sure you're not sleeping with anyone who minds a little drooling. Sleep hits you like a metric ton of bricks on that stuff.)

By 10:30, I was passed out in bed (clean sheets! Clean P.J.'s! Sweet-smelling hair! A little tipsy!) with my cat next to me, my book on my chest, and surrounded by the cleanest two-bedroom apartment this side of the Missisippi.

I woke up twelve and a half hours later with a smile on my face -- bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, and in moments I had a pot of coffee brewing and was in workout clothes. I was heading out the door when I grabbed my keys and noticed a blinking light on the blackberry, indicating a message. I put it on speaker phone while I spun around the house, gathering my things for a long, productive day.

Loud and crackly came the voice of a friend who noted my absence on the scene the night before and suspected what I was up to:

"Hi, it's me. I know you're probably elbow-deep in cat hair right now and loving it, but we're all going down to the Kirkland pub for a beer. Take off your rubber gloves, put on some mascara and COME! It's only a quick walk from your house. Or vaccum some more, either way. But we'd love to see you..."

I saved the message and hung up, smiling in appreciation of the understanding of good friends - even when I need to befriend myself, alone. I patted the cat, took a final, sweeping look at my sparkling apartment, and pulled open the door, stepping out into the crisp mid-morning.

BumberMusic, tweens, paraphenalia, vodka in the bushes, and what's in my I-Pod.

The weekend before last, I went to Bumbershoot, an annual music festival here in Seattle. Saw loads of great music, including Zero7, Steve Miller Band, Kanye, Atmosphere, Tribe Called Quest, Speaker Speaker, Sonja Kitchell, etc.

The first night, my friends and I decided we'd better use Kanye (who we don't care much about, honestly) as a dry-run for Tribe (who I would bleed one of my closest friends to death just to see). You know: get there early, see how hard it is to get a good position on the floor, yadda yadda.

We got into the stadium two hours early for the concert and people were already sprawled out on the astro-turf, claiming positions for the concert. We rolled our eyes at each other, stepped across a sea of bodies and posted up somewhere relatively near the stage. It was only then, after sitting down and making some room for ourselves, that we looked around.

We were SURROUNDED by pot-smoking pre-pubescent kids. Nearly all the girls were wearing jean skirts and tank tops (sooo impractical for astro-turf sitting!). The boys tended to all look the same: baggyish holeyish jeans and t-shirts with either flip flops or oversized cartoon shoes and slightly off-center hats.

It wasn't the fact that these kids were less than half my age that threw me off -- I mean, c'mon, we were at Kanye West -- I get it.

What shocked me was all the glass pipes they were smoking out of -- in broad daylight. Isn't that a little balsy?

I've never understood the desire to use paraphenalia when smoking pot. I mean, what ever happened to a good, old-fashioned, disposable joint? Pretty amazing. But fortunately, Seattle is a pretty pot-friendly city. No arrests or confiscations were made, and the tweens got nice and bleary-eyed and blissed out pretty much the whole night. And that meant they did pass around curly fries, which was awesome...

Anyway, after a half hour or so of chiling on the Astroturf and sizing up who we'd have to knock out to get to the front of the stadium when the music started, we decided we'd have no problem blasting through them all a few minutes before the show started (really, they were all about 100 pounds), so we hit the beer garden, giving up our spot. This proved a steller idea at first: An hour later, we were buzzy, fuzzy, and back at front, enjoying the show (with a clear view, too -- another benefit of going to concerts with children). The downside? 5 dollar plastic cups of Miller Lite keg beer. Spendy, cheesy, and not that tasty. Blew 50 bucks in about 30 minutes on those for 3 of us. Not cool.

The following day, we returned, though we refined our technique. This time, instead of driving to Bumbershoot, we filled up a travel coffee mug with vodka and bused down in the afternoon, eliminating drunk driving and the beer-garden spend. After stashing the carafe in some bushes outside Seattle Center and praying no industrius bum happened across it, we dashed in, caught some shows, and ate.

Later, we retrieved the alcohol, untouched, from the bushes and brought it in to the stadium, where we caught Atmosphere.

[In college, my friends and I were in love with an Atmosphere song where he sings: "I'm gonna be bigger than Jesus/ Bigger than wrestling/ Bigger than the Beatles/ Bigger than breast implants/ I'm gonna be the biggest thing to hit these little kids/ Bigger than guns/ Bigger than cigarettes.".

One of these friends was a guy named String. String had a real first name, but didn't go by it, because String just fit. Picture a pale piece of string, approximately 6 feet and 7 inches long, standing on end. Now give it a medium-high voice, too-short jeans, a Hurley t-shirt, and imagine it never stops talking. That's him.

Anyway, String is a classic college character, and the Atmosphere song reminds me of him because he used to always mix up the first few lines, saying "Bigger than JEEEZus, bigger than ELVIS!!" in this enthusiastic, nerdy twang. Good stuff.]

Back to the point: After Atmosphere came Tribe, and we were very close to the stage, which was really phenomenal. Highlights include:

1. Asking a few of the kids around me if they knew who Tribe was before the concert started and them saying they have no idea... they're just here for Atmosphere, then realizing they weren't even born when Tribe dropped their second album.

2. Knowing all the lyrics.

3. Swinging (and then accidentally releasing) a t-shirt above my head, losing it in a sea of hip-hop-loving bodies, never to be seen again.

4. Nearly getting in a fight with a bouncer in an attempt to get backstage.

5. Being saved by a female bouncer after nearly fighting the male one in an attempt to get backstage, then nearly crying when I told her they were the only group I'd get arrested trying to meet before she told me I should probably leave and stop saying that, lest I actually get arrested.

__________________________________

What's in my IPod, CD player and head these days:

Sergio Mendez "Timeless" -- a collaboration between Sergio Mendez and Will.i.am (of Black Eyed Peas), and a blending of my favorite genres of music: bossa nova, samba, jazz, hip hop, and soul. I seriously can't stop listening to it. Infectious rythms, talented vocalists including Erykah Badu, Jill Scott and India.Arie, and some of my favorite rappers including Q-Tip, Black Thought and Chali 2NA.

It's a fusion you don't hear too often, but I hope there's more of. And it's rocking my world, a.m. to p.m..

Download it here.

Strange but true: grocery store celebrity run-in

You know my thing for grocery stores? Well, now I've got another point to add to the list of what's fabulous about them: you're more likely at a grocery store than anywhere else to inconspicuously run into a famous person.

I've run into Dave Matthews before at a Whole Foods, but didn't bother saying anything other than "hi" in passing, because it was crowded and he's a regular there -- I figured I'd save the mobbing for later.

But last night, there I was at the grocery store, in the aisle with all the soups and sauces and whatnot, when I looked up, and the overhead lights had been blocked out by a gigantic man holding a box of macaroni, pushing a teeny tiny shopping cart and with a teenier tinier young woman next to him.

It was the (very large and somewhat famous) Bob Sapp.

For those of you unfamiliar with Bob Sapp, here's a rundown:

Defensive Lineman for the UW, before being drafted by the Bears and then leaving the NFL because of (gasp!) steroid use.

He's also a kickboxer, world champion wrestler and general martial arts guru.

He appeared as the enormous convict in "The Longest Yard" with Adam Sandler.

Neck-to-head ratio? Ridiculous (clearly).

6 feet, 7 inches, nearly 400 pounds.

He's been nicknamed "The Beast", and has made it big in Asia as a fighter, where apparently they think he is a terrifying ape-like creature, per this video, which actually has some pretty crazy highlights in it, after you get over the part where he eats a plastic baby doll's head off its body.

"Hey!" I said, (in retrospect, not very polite, particularly as he's huge and could crush me with one hand...) "I know you!"
Bob grinned and then actually giggled, which surprised me. It was sort of a melodic, silly little giggle for such a large, imposing man. (Like Tyson's lisp. What is that all about, anyway? Big men with little, wussy voices and mannerisms -- it's weird, and almost formulaic, like huge black men:wussy voices as little fuzzy rabbits:fluffy tails.)
"Well," I stuttered a bit, "I mean, I don't really know you, of course, but you're Bob Sapp, right? Longest Yard? Football? Fighter?"
"Yeah, that's right!" Bob said through a widening smile, almost like he was surprised I recognized him. This exclamation was followed by another giggle, which I discovered he would use as regular and consistently surprising punctuation every time he spoke from then on out.
"Well, I'm a big fan!" I said, though I'm pretty sure recognizing him doesn't really constitute 'big fan' status.

(I mean, I didn't want to hurt his feelings with a 'Well, I know who you are, but only care a little as you're presently the only celebrity in sight. Now, if William Shatner were to suddenly appear, I'd drop you like Britney Spears' baby in favor of him, but...')

I continued: "What was it like beating The Refrigerator? Is Adam Sandler cool in real life? Do you really take steroids? How in the world do you have sex with that tiny asian girl who is clearly your girlfriend who is shopping with you without permanently damaging her?"

(Okay, maybe I didn't exactly ask that, but you get the gist.) Poor guy giggled and answered and giggled and answered some more before I realized I had unexpectedly become a weird fan, and apologized, saying I'd let him get back to his shopping.

Later, he actually hunted me down in the produce section (that part's not a joke -- he seriously came and found me to chat some more) to tell me about his upcoming movie with Rob Schneider (who, strangely enough, I referenced in my "Naked!" post a week or two ago).

"I've got a movie coming out in 8 months with Rob Schneider," said Bob.
"Really? What's the plotline?" I asked.
"Well, that's the problem," he said/giggled. "If I tell you, you might not see the movie!"
"Try me," I challenged.
"Well, Rob plays this guy who's trying not to go to jail because he doesn't want to get fucked in the ass," said Bob, making a thrusting motion when he said "fucked in the ass".
I swallowed, and tried not to laugh. "Go on..."
"And, well, I am the guy trying to fuck him in the ass," he continued. "But I get beat up in the end."

Yeah, maybe not such a sophisticated plotline, but now that I've met the guy in person, I've gotta go see the movie, of course. So I'll let you know, in 8 months, how it is watching Rob Schneider run around covering his cornhole for an hour and a half.

In the end, he drove away in his F-150 (no obnoxious rims, or tinting or anything!) after we each checked out and chatted a bit more, and that was it. Just me, my groceries, and yet another reason to go shopping again tomorrow: Close (if a little strange) encounters of the semi-celebrity kind.

HEATwaaaayve! Naked! Bagels! Laywers!

Over the past week, Seattle has experienced a major heatwave. (No, not like the band, like the weather.) And it almost killed me.

It has been so fucking hot here that at night, even after popping a Xanax AND a Tylenol PM (which I'm sure will probably kill me if the heat doesn't), I STILL can't sleep. Instead, I lie there on top of my bed very close to naked, "glistening", as each one of my limbs goes entirely numb (because of the drugs), and fantasize about either dying of heatstroke or driving to my air conditioned office in my underwear, breaking in, and sleeping under my desk until morning, where I'm awoken by our small and very shy hispanic office cleaning man, who is hitting me with his vaccum cleaner, trying not to look at the strange half-clad white girl under her desk.

Meanwhile, what I should really be concerned about is the fact that I'm so heavily medicated that I couldn't get out of bed to save myself if there were a fire or defend myself if there were a prowler (and even if I did, I'd be in my underwear, and with all the drugs there's no way I could get further dressed, so that would be pretty embarrassing, too).

(And other totally logical and likely examples of dangerous things like that.)

By the time I got to sleep last night, it was 4:15 a.m., and I was sprawled out in the middle of my livingroom floor in front of the sliding door and open screen door and window, with three fans pointed right at me and set on full-speed, pushing around air so hot it feels like I'm being blowdried all night. Awesome.

When I finally started to wake up, late, I was groggy and disoriented from the long night, and it was bright as all shit in my apartment. So, I kept my eyes closed to ease into this whole "waking up after 3 hours of tortured sleep" thing. The noise was incredible. It was like I was lying in the middle of a helicopter pad. And then I realized, as I really began to wake up, that it was super bright in the place because all the windows were open. All the windows were open. OPEN. And I was LYING, BARELY CLOTHED, ON MY FLOOR with my hair blowing everywhichway, for all the neighbors and commuters on the street directly outside my sliding door, to see.

After the momentary frozen shock of it all (and a few "WhoOOOOoooo!"'s from outside), I rolled over onto my stomach and army-crawled to the hallway, in my undies, where I found refuge in the form of a pillowcase, which I wrapped around me like a too-short towel/too large tube top and dashed into my dark, hot bedroom, where I sat on the floor and half-giggled, half-burned in humiliation until I was approximately 10 minutes late for work, exhausted and still not dressed.

Awesome.


But, on the upside, my office is today full of 1)food 2) coffee and 3)reasonably attractive young lawyers.

Fridays are bagel days at my office. And that makes me VERY happy, as I spend the rest of the week calorically scrimping (no breakfast, Zone Bar for lunch, a couple Americanos, and salad for dinner) so that I can drink whatever I want (alcohol is very high-calorie!) and, most of all, indulge on bagel day.

Today was 1/2 a jalepeno bagel with jalepeno cream cheese and 1/4 a cinnamon twist bagel with strawberry. Delicious and incredibly overindulgent.

To top it all off, we've also got a bunch of lawyers and consultants in our office this week, (apparently we only hire the 25-35 year old, attractive lawyers and consultants - Yay!!!) which means we ALSO had fresh coffee in every office (I guess to impress/motivate them. I dunno). I am on my third cup. Buzzzz.

So not only am I focused (thank you, caffeine) on work, but I've also been incredibly productive otherwise today: I've made eyes at at least three delicious little lawyer-types, who keep walking by my office.

Probably because they think I'm cute. (Which would be a minor miracle, as on three hours of sleep I look like Rob Schneider.) So far, at least one made eyes back. (I think. Or maybe he was checking himSELF out in my window.)

(I've got to stop with these excessive, sarcastic, parentheticals.)

(It's really getting ridiculous.)

________________________________

Have a good weekend, all!

(And if you have a little time to click around, check out Ron Silliman, who is smart and on point with poetics. Because after you leave here, you probably need a little intelligent stimulation. Just looking out for you.)

The Gasping Girl and the Mountain

Let me just say that while climbing that mountain this weekend, I vehemently committed myself to never doing the downhill skiing leg of Ski to Sea again. But somehow between then and now, I've practically already signed up again, and have spent a good part of this morning marveling at that.

But before I go there, let me describe the experience:

I had prepared myself to for it to be hard, but honestly, even in my worst nightmares I had no concept of just how grisly it would get up there. It was like I stepped into my own private version of The Old Man And the Sea. I was Hemmingway. The mountain was the fish.

We were at war.
And it was kicking my ass.

Clearly, in the end, I prevailed, but let me just say this: the downhill ski leg of the race has got to be the hardest. First, it's the only leg where you get timed while you carry your equipment to the starting point. Second, it's the only leg outside of the cross-country ski leg that isn't entirely downhill or flat. And third, because it's named alarmingly poorly, which leads the novice to think they've got it handled. To wit: though I knew there was going to be a climb, I basically just kept telling myself "Yeah, but it's the Downhill Ski leg! How hard can it be? You've been skiing for DECADES!"

Right. Most (like, 90 percent) of the time spent on that mountain is you, heavy-ass ski boots on, heavy, awkward skis and poles resting across shoulders, climbing as fast as you can up a snowy, wet mountain face that is so steep that if you look down behind you, you get vertigo and almost pass out. Downhill ski my ass.

Were I to name this leg of the event, I might choose something a bit more descriptive and/or accurate. For example, some fitting names include but aren't limited to:

1. Climb to the Summit of Mt. Baker in Ski Shit Ill-Adapted To the Purpose
2. The Only Way It Gets Worse is if You're Trapped in an Avalanche With A Live, Hungry Bear
3. Wanna Vomit, Cry And/Or Wish You Were Dead?


But I made it! Take that, Mount Baker! And my team finished squarely in the middle of the pack - decent showing for a first-time mixed rec team. I did slightly better than average for my leg -- they estimate it will take 25 minutes for the first place finisher, and between 30 and 50 minutes for the rest. I came up near 35 minutes. (If I hadn't stopped once to curse my own existance and watch two of my competitors stop to puke, I might have done slightly better, but what can you do?)

Interestingly, my legs aren't sore at all -- they're in pretty good shape from the volleyball I play a couple times a week. My right shoulder is on fire from carrying my skis up the damn mountain, but the worst part was just the cardiovascular endurance. I was working so hard that it was pretty much anaerobic - and my lungs are in moderate shape, at best. So I'm recommitted to running a couple times a week. I'm convinced by the time I get suckered into doing this again next year, (which is inevitable) I'll be able to significantly improve my time, if I train right.

It's amazing how soon after such a horrible, painful event you can be willing to put yourself right back there. Something like childbirth, I guess. Honestly, in the middle of the climb, it occurred to me that I actually paid to be there, and I was so incredulous that I would have laughed out loud, if I hadn't been suffocating and struggling to remain conscious. It was, as I've said to anyone who will listen over the past 48 hours, probably the hardest thing I've ever done.

And yet here I am, two days later, glowing with accomplishment, ready to do it all again -- but better next time.

Wish me luck.

I'm doing this this weekend.
This is my leg.

I am quite entirely serious when I say that this may very well kill me. If the getting up at 5 a.m. part doesn't take care of it first, the 1,000 foot clim up the face of a snow-covered mountain in unwieldy ski boots most certainly will end my existence on this planet. But, always the optimist, I've compiled a list of pros and cons.

Upside 1. If I just have a minor stroke but still make it to the top of the mountain, the odds are good that a hunky ski patrol guy will have to ski me down to the bottom on one of those stretchers, giving me plenty time to look at his ass

The downside: Stroke=drool. Drool does not=sex appeal times one million. Also, stroke=paralysis. Paralysis does not=responsive to advances, even if I do manage to not drool.

Upside 2. If I drink enough the night before, I may well be able to do the whole race while still blacked out (though it's been probably 4 years since I've gotten that intoxicated, so the odds are probably better that I win the race or the lottery, but...), thus erasing all the horrific pain from my memory

The downside: nausea. No one likes a crying puker calling for her mommy on a snowy mountain at an athletic event. Major morale-buster.

Upside 3. I will possibly be the best looking woman there for two reasons: first, this thing is mostly done by men. Second, this thing is mostly done by hippies. Hell-lloo, self-esteem booster!!

Me, panting and entering cardiac arrest but still attempting to muster a come-hither for the tall drink of water passing me: "Heee--gasp--eeey!"

Tall drink of water, head down, fixated on conquering the mountain like a real competitor: "Mmmph".

Me: "I shave!"

TDOW, perking up a bit, still focused on winning the God-forsaken race: "Mmm?"

Me, in one breath: "I don't even know what patchouli IS!! And I've never taken a feminism class! And I don't think strip clubs are offensive!!"

TDOW, giving up on the race and lurching at me: "Bushes!! NOW!"

Downside: I'm pretty sure most of the men there will be hippies. Which means a few bad things, including but not limited to extreme sensitivity, a fatal attraction to their guitars and the sound of their own voices singing bad Dave Matthews cover songs (OR, worse, sappy fucking songs they WROTE... oh my God, if that isn't a dealbreaker...), smelliness, an irritating fixation on politics, cutting plastic six-pack rings, and washing and re-using ziploc baggies, and terrible superiority complexes. None of these are good things.


I'll let you know how it goes.

We lost, but Seattle and I have made up. So at least there's that.

I really can't even begin to tell you how much I hate the NFL right now. So very, very much.

It is the richest professional sports organization in the country, and is the only one that doesn't pay for full-time referees. What is that about? And how many more terrible calls do we have to watch before something changes?

I'm not blaming the referees for Seattle's loss. I recognize that the Hawks just didn't play their game tonight, and that "Butterfingers" Stevens better hope I don't run into him on the street, and that Pittsburgh had some big plays, and that Seattle got first down after first down but couldn't seem to convert that into points. But the emotional highs and lows of this particular Superbowl were brutally emphasized by the crappy, crappy calls. Every time we'd make a big play, there was laundry on the field, indicating a massively bad call was about to be made by some official, not only undoing whatever good we just did, but probably also penalizing us something like 17 million yards and completely fucking up our momentum.

It was intense:

I yelled, pre-bowl, along to "Paradise City" and the whole original (12 minute long) "Rapper's Delight", to which I know all the words.
I drank many Nut Brown Ales from the keg in my entry way.
I made a shirt, in keeping with the theme of our Superbowl partay.
I ate my weight in guacamole, snap peas and deviled eggs.
I yelled about the game starting.
I yelled at the referees.
I watched Fabio make an ass of himself yet again, and wondered why GoDaddy, the clear leader in domain name sales wasted millions prostrating itself to 22 year old silicone-loving males.
I refereed the Halftime Parking Lot Bowl, as 12 people hurled a football around our parking lot, hitting at least two neighbors' cars.
I picked the PLB MVP.
I yelled about our a key interception and that beautiful, record-breaking run.
I yelled more at/about bad calls.
I yelled at/about my team.
I yelled at/about those around me.
I drank another beer.
Then I yelled some more.
Then I lost my voice, lost all hope, and lost any remaining shred of respect for Jessica Simpson.

And then we lost. And our party guests suddenly realized we would not be going out and fulfilling our lifelong fantasies of looting in Pioneer Square, and mourned for a bit before finally settling in for a huge game of Scrabble instead.

Key Superbowl party quotes:

"Brown and bubbly? That was my nickname in college."

"Ref!! Your mom gave me herpes!!"

"I'm a big fan of beards. Huge. In fact, most women I date have them."

"Your balls don't have any hair on them!" (seriously, this made sense and wasn't even gross at the time.)

"I HATE zebras. I wish I was a lion."

"Fuck. Jesus. Mary Magdeline?"

"I think I just threw up a little in my mouth. No... wait. Yep, I did."

More on the game, the 12th man, and ceasing and desisting.


__________________________

The silver lining? Somewhere between the yelling and the losing, I fell back in love with Seattle. Look, I will most likely yell random cuss words at anyone wearing black and white stripes for the next 2 weeks, but even in spite of this and the solid month of rain and that one time I got a ticket for jaywalking, I love this city. I think I just forgot that for a few days while I was busy worrying that I might drown on my walk to and from the bus every day.

So Seattle, here's to you. With or without the sun and the Superbowl, and even after your fourth double tall skinny latte, you are a sweet and complex, if difficult, lady. And in the end, you've got class. Style. And you know Superbowl rings are really, really gaudy.

And I love that about you.
__________________________

Let's take the scenic route, eh?

On Seattle

I.
It's as if I am visiting after being away far too long.
I had almost forgotten the feeling
of damp air on skin,
the sickly sweet smell of garbage and bum piss
in the alleys of downtown,
and the way spring doesn't come until June --
buds bursting into colorful crowns
yesterday nonexistant in the green,
now grinning and bobbing outside my window.

I had almost forgotten the contradiction of this place:
How it buzzes, steel and glass planted in wetland;
The reflections in tall, mirrored buildings
of slender trees tacking down squares of earth along gritty streets;
The reflections in wide, windowed buildings
of two people in one trenchcoat beneath a yellow bus sign, kissing;
The reflections in geometric wonders of buildings:
reverse images of brick buildings and black buildings
and of building itself.

I'd let the pierced blonde woman slip my mind:
glittering tragically in anger and rebellion
with her carefully dirty hair,
lounging always outside the coffee shop
with newsprint-blackened fingers
framed by the fog of a hot-tipped cigarette.

I had almost forgotten the noise:
The pregnant silence just before
a strong-armed man in rainboots throws his head back,
hands outstretched in an embrace with thick air
and belts "Fish! FII-IISH!"
in a gravely bass that makes me want to join him
in my own triumphant release;
And the cacaphony of buses, taxis and horse-drawn carts
jockying for position along First Avenue,
all hissing, honking and clopping.

And I am lucky to have been moved to remember
how in a day amongst
the raincoats
and streetlights
and brick buildings
and buses
it's possible to exist solely on this energy
and be satiated, somehow.

II.
Bumper to bumper,
we creep through the arteries of this city together.
Bonding in bored glances from lane to lane,
we flirt -- one metal pod to another --
at seven, eight, fourteen miles per hour.

III.
I finally peel away from the rush hour rest
and fly.

Brakes shriek as I careen around a corner,
reckless in my new freedom.
I pass the standing firemen,
all navy jumpsuits and square jaws,
at the station
with my windows cranked down and
The Doobie Brothers blaring from the one good speaker.

I sing through the sucker tucked in my cheek
just loud enough for them to notice,
though I don't know the words to this one.

The air screams in one window --
whipping my hair about my neck
pouring in my sleeves, around my ankles
then biting cheeks and dampening eyes --
before it bursts out another.

I watch it in the rearview
as it teases the litter in the street behind me;
I watch it grow smaller.

And I watch the dappled light,
filtered through the trees,
flying over my hood, windshield and me,
faster and faster:
an Appaloosa racing through the veins of this metropolis.

"S" words: synonyms, sex, slaying, Superbowl & slow jam.

Word of the day: callibogus. Apparently it is synonymous with "alcohol".
_________________

So I recently had a conversation with a friend about the word "slay". I'm a fan of using it as a substitution for the word "kill" in the following contexts:

"Oh, man! Ron Burgundy KILLS me!!" or "Watching pair figure skaters drop their partners in those cheesy sparkly spandexy costumes totally KILLS me!" etc.

I had just said something like "You SLAY me!" in response to some comedic moment, which then led to the discussion of why "slay" is such a good word. There are the obvious reasons (it's not a funny word when used appropriately, which means that when you use it ironically, it's funny), and then there is my friend's reason:

Him: "I dunno... I just like it. It's romantic, or something. It makes me think of dragons, and... and, like, hot knight sex!"

I spent easily the next 5 minutes laughing hysterically, with visions of two dim-witted armored men clanking against each other, trying to figure out just how to accomplish the sex act in the cumbersome and impenetrable outerwear. The details are the best part of this visual: their little face plates clanking down over their eyes at inopportune and frustrating times, their huge, heavy arms and boots, the inflexibility... it was priceless.

The next day, I shared this story with another friend, who had the same reaction, and proceeded to blog about his little mental picture. i thought I'd share his version with you, too.

I guess he should have said "hot knight-and-damsel sex", if that's what he meant, huh? (Not that there's anything wrong with hot knight sex...)

___________________

I just watched "Lord of War" - a non-preachy but thinly veiled statement film about the illegal international weapons trafficking (particularly in the poorest regions: Libya, Sierra Leon, etc.). The premise is provocative, much of the film leans heavily on historical events, and they actually worked with arms dealers in the making of the movie. Apparently it was cheaper to use real illegal AK-47's in scenes than to build out thousands of prop versions. Which is scary, and cool.

Though I'm generally tempted not to like Nicholas Cage for a variety of reasons including but not limited to the fact that his face depresses me and he sometimes seems to mistake "subtle" for "sleeping", I am generally reluctantly impressed by him. I even own and love "Adaptation" and found him quite brilliant in it. And "Lord of War" also proved to be his own little stage, though he was supported by a decent cast, including Jared Leto (plays his cokehead brother... weird, huh?) and Eamonn Walker as a perfect Andre Baptiste. Ethan Hawke (the token FBI guy) was a stretch, but he was really just there to deliver some statistics and monologue every once in a while about all the death the arms trade causes, so he's as forgivable as he is forgettable in the flick.

It was remarkably intelligent without being over-politicized. And Cage played his role with depth and coolness, yet again proving me shallow and wrong about him. And he delivered some dark but very funny lines like a champ. Asshole. Look, it's not 5-star, but it's good. See it.
_________________

I'm throwing a Superbowl party, it appears. And the face paint will be in full effect. But this time my roommate has come up with a few new elements. His tentative concept is to hand out T-shirts and sharpies at the door, on the back of which everyone must ink a number (for the halftime parking lot game - to make the commentators jobs easier) and on the front of which everyone must write something incorporating one of the following three words: "Score", "Sack", or "Waterboy". My contribution to the party will be the food, the wit, and a keg of ice-cold libation.

Our cranky neighbor is going to blow a gasket.

Current soundtrack:
"Raindrops" -- Ben Folds Five
"Amber" -- 311
"Nothing Even Matters" -- D'Angelo feat. Lauryn Hill
"Lonliest Girl in the World" -- Cary Brothers
"Heaven" -- D'Angelo feat. Erykah Badu

(it's rainy. we're doing the cool slow jams thing today.)

WOO HOO!!! (Also, content-based ads and the best cover song that no one's ever done)

You knew it was coming: THE SEAHAWKS ARE GOING TO THE SUPERBOWL!! I'm pretty sure 2006 is going to be the best year of my life thus far, and this is just another reason why. It was crazy around here before, during and after the game -- downtown was a mess, everybody was partying, and the crazies were out in rare form.

Though I didn't end up getting tickets to the game, I DID throw a game-day party. This was a very close second to being there, AND we didn't have to stand in a cold parking lot drinking bad beer, or, conversely, stand in a cold stadium drinking expensive beer. Besides these obvious plusses (which I'm clearly just listing to make myself feel better for not being at the game), the party was a smashing success (which only means there were more people than just my roommate and I there) with a few key memorable moments:

1. Near-mandatory Seahawks face painting. My vision was just the standard football grease stripes in blue and green below our eyes, but this party trick went far beyond my wildest expectations. We actually had people with full-on seahawks painted on their faces, a few nose racing stripes, a couple "Go Hawks", and my personal favorite, the guy who paited an H, them made his mouth into an A, followed by WKS. It's difficult to describe here, but the end effect was something of a cross between a dirty frenchman's mustache and a carnie.

2. One partycomer, Mark, was the "quote of the day" generator. The two times he substantially chimed in to playoff party "conversation", if it can be called that, were absolutely priceless. The first time, someone asked what the name of the dog in Neverending Story was. Before anyone had a chance to process the question, Mark was all up in it. "Falcor!!!" he screamed, before turning back to the TV. The second time, he randomly told a story about how he used to put penis cutouts in elevator lights in college at Seattle Pacific University, thus casting a "penis shadow" on everyone in the elevator.

By the end of the night, we decided that we should all start a band - a 20+ person band - and call it "Falcor and the Penis Cutouts".

3. During halftime, we adjourned to the parking lot outside my house for a quick game of pavement football. As the game was played on cement, to tackle a player, it was determined that you had to grab their ass -- one hand only. The game was officiated by a guy who lives a few stories up in an apartment complex overlooking the parking lot, and his black Lab. It was a complete shit show. There were a few spectators from other surrounding apartments, I'll just say that. I can't decide if they were watching in glee or horror, or were deciding whether or not to shoot us/call the cops, but it was funny regardless. The final score was 7-0, and there was only one successful pass - completed by Josh2 (not Josh1, who is my roommate), who layed himself out on the cement. It was glorious - he didn't even hesitate. He just ran, dove, got the roadrash of his life, and completed the pass. Later, as he sat on the couch and bled, we gave him one of Josh1's old football trophies with a piece of paper taped onto the bottom that read "Josh: parking lot playoff game MVP 2006".

4. Mid-game, we noticed that I got a new neighbor. We noticed this because I have two enormous windows. One looks out onto Ballard, the bridge, and water. The other looks directly into an apartment. We spent a good quarter waving, gesturing, and considering mooning this new neighbor before we finally (using sign language) got him to come over and join us. He seemed a little overwhelmed at first, as we are a very noisy, very funny, and very enthusiastic bunch, but we immediately fed him pie, handed him a beer, and made fun of him. He took to it like a redneck to a pig.

5. Immediately following the game, Josh1 turned on the stereo, and the whole party (well, except for the again-frightened neighbor/new friend) erupted into a spontaneous Seahawk Superbowl Celebration dance to Stevie Wonder's "Signed, Sealed, Delivered". I cannot, for the life of me, explain how funny this was. Funny, and bizarre, and totally typical. Quote: "I didn't know it was that kind of party!"

All of these things were much, much funnier at the time. I think it had something to do with either our collective euphoria about the way we handed the Panthers their asses, or pheremones. One of the two.

_____________

So I recently learned, the hard way, how "Content-based" ads work. Google's "ADSense" actually makes no sense at all. All it took was ONE post with the word "underwear" in it, and suddenly the top of Legwarmers is plastered with the following ads:

"Munsingwear Sale 25% off
Regular and Big Man Underwear Free Shipping on orders $45 or more"

and this gem for disposable underwear, which I just don't understand at all.

Those were pretty good, but then, somehow, I got THIS weird ad, which had to be triggered by a combination of "pretty boy" and "spray tan", don't you think?:

"Men's Thong at SwimOutlet! Huge selection of swimwear and gear: The Swimming Superstore".

_____________

I am a pretty big fan of decent musicians covering other people's songs. I recognize that some people loathe this, instead preferring original music, but I really enjoy hearing different takes on the same song. There is, however, a caveat: for a cover to be really, really good, it must be ironic. An example: Alanis' cover of Seal's "Crazy". It's a good song, she sings it well, no one got hurt. But it lacks irony. She IS a little crazy, and the song is totally in line with her image.

A good cover is unexpected, sounds totally different but reminiscent of the original, and is, above all, ironic. Think of the Wedding Singer version of "Bright Eyes". It's great and memorable because the movie cover took it from sappy to suicidal. It is beautiful.

I've given this some serious thought, and determined that I have a concept for the best cover of all time, which I will now share with you and subsequently someone will do and make a lot of money off of, which will piss me off like no other because no one will believe that it was my idea first, which is the most infuriating feeling ever. But such is life.

The song is C & C Music Factory's "Dance". The band will be someone like Metallica, Rage, Alien Ant Farm, or Audioslave. It will be VERY heavy on guitar, VERY angry, and it will kick ass.

Just take a moment to picture it. It is funny, AND it is very rock and roll. And it's a good song, man. I'm a genius. You cannot argue that this is one of the best ideas of all time.

_______________

I need to wind down now. It was a very, very good game. By which I mean, of course:

GO SEAHAWKS!!!!!

From suburbia to the city: progressing to the pulse

I am moving, in 2 weeks, to the city.

Destination: a fantastic house (HUGE windows with a view, 2 bedrooms, a hugegantic kitchen -- more room to cook, which is good, because I love to cook, and many other exciting features (like a 10-minute commute) that you don't give a shit about. It's ok, you don't have to pretend.

This house is in Fremont...full of artists and students and conflict and color and life. I love being in the city.

I don't know how I survived on the Eastside so long. Don't get me wrong, I grew up there, and owe many of my greatest friends and experiences to that place. I've just reached a point where I am completely bored by it. And the city I live in now, Kenmore, is full of people I like to affectionately call Kenmorons.

What is exciting and challenging and unique about herds of 40-somethings commuting to and from jobs they hate with glassy eyes? Or the cheesy little smoke-filled bars where people argue about sports games and tell bigoted jokes too loud? Or the handful of people I went to high-school with who never left Bothell and have remained exactly, scarily, the same?

Or cul-de-sacs? The definition:

1. a street, lane, etc., closed at one end; blind alley; dead-end street.
2. any situation in which further progress is impossible.

Exactly.

So I'm ready. And I plan to partake in my very favorite celebration in Fremont this weekend to jump-start my relocation: the Fremont Solstice Fair.

You have seen nothing until you've seen this fair. Don't worry, I'll tell you all about it...