a wind inside a letter-box

Gulfport RePost- Union Weekly Article: "We Are Still Here"

2009-07-17T22:46:00.000-07:00

The article I wrote for The Union Weekly can be read online, with photos and formatting in-tact, at http://issuu.com/theunionweekly/docs/60.01/7

The text is here:

"We Are Still Here"

It’s not that anyone could forget the devastation of Hurricane Katrina. It’s not like we weren’t all glued to the television sets on that horrible day in August of 2005 watching in disbelief as the rain and wind became epic, as hours passed and things got more surreal. Numbers and dollar amounts and racial demographics scrolled across our screens for weeks after, but they made no more sense than the footage of roofs just barely breaking over the top of filthy gray water, silent and vast. From our homes in Southern California, where rain is a rare but polite visitor that almost never overstays its welcome, it was hard to even imagine that kind of devastation.

Nonetheless, we did what we could, as well as we could. Many of us donated money to charities for disaster relief, whether directly or as part of the dozens of partnership programs that between charities and other organizations. Our dollars bought food, clothing, and medical supplies for a region torn apart. But we did not stop with just our monetary donations. Blood banks after the storm were filled with people wanting to give life in an even more direct way. And the Gulf Coast itself was overwhelmed with volunteers who wanted to make their muscles their donations. The national and international response to an historic disaster was beautiful and immediate.

No, we didn’t forget the storm. How could we? But as the months wore on, the stories on the news were about politics and bureaucracies: what went wrong? The storm cost $80 billion and two thousand human lives. Who was to blame? There were questions of embezzlement, of misuse of federally granted and donated funds, and of preferential treatment of certain areas over others based on race. And, though we didn’t forget the Gulf Coast or the horror of those first days after the storm, we began to think about other things. Blood banks dried up. Churches and other sites that opened their doors to so many volunteers that their housing was becoming a whole new problem relaxed as thousands became hundreds and then dozens. Slowly government help started to trickle in, but it has proven again and again to be simply not enough to replace whole neighborhoods, to say nothing of the other, less tangible but more profound devastation.

I decided to spend the week before Christmas in Gulfport, Mississippi. In our new apartment, my fiancé and I were lining walls with bookshelves and hanging up pictures, moving furniture around to fit our first tree and buying hooks for our stockings. I had a lot to be thankful for. And, during a season when the good things in life seem so much better, pain and loss are just that much harder to bear. Money won’t cure despair, and I don’t have much of it anyway. But I could pack a suitcase and spend a week proving that, though it’s been over a year and new tragedies and scandals have taken over our front pages, we haven’t forgotten. And, since I could, I did.

Arrival: “There were houses here.”

Our team was a dozen strong: six college-aged kids and six adults. Almost immediately after the storm, Grace First pledged $1 million for relief in the area. One of the first major purchases was the Grace First Mission House, a two-story building in Gulfport that’s housed hundreds of volunteers since its dedication. During our week in Mississippi, we’d be staying there.

On December 17^th, as we took an alarmingly steep ascent out of John Wayne Airport, I was amazed at how quickly we were out of the Southern California metropolitan area. Looking out the window of the plane, I could see patches of partitioned land beyond the heavy cloud cover, but within an hour of take-off I had no idea where I was. Somewhere above the southwestern portion of America, between Irvine and Gulfport. Somewhere far enough above that borders and cities and townships couldn’t be distinguished, and everything just looked like land. Watching fifteen hundred nameless miles crawl far beneath you has a way of reminding you just how artificial Southern California’s sense of isolation is. From tens of thousands of miles above ground, it was easy to see that it really is just one country. With no lines except the lazy meandering of rivers, it was easy to see that the storm hadn’t hit as far away from us as it’d seemed.

We were met at the Biloxi/Gulfport airport by a charming lady named Martha Lee, leader of the youth group for Westminster Presbyterian Church, with whom Grace First had partnered in the months after the storm. Before we headed to the house for the night, Martha Lee took us on a drive down the coastline. I don’t know what I was expecting. Something that looked more like the loud violence of an earthquake, maybe. Instead there were skeleton houses standing silent and stoic in the waning light. More often, there were just empty lots or broken foundations. “There were houses here,” said Martha Lee. “Anywhere you see nothing, it’s because there used to be something there.”

Work: Tearing Down & Rebuilding

Early Monday morning, we set out for our worksite. On the way to the house we would be working on, we passed more devastation. Along the coast houses had been ripped from their foundations. Further inland, there had been the quick and deadly flooding and the torrential rains. Everywhere there was damage, and everywhere there was construction. So long after the storm, there were many buildings that had been restored or rebuilt. There were signs on lampposts and fences selling lumber and other building supplies. But next door to the new houses were those empty lots, those classic Southern mansions, in families for generations, that would never be houses again.

Our worksite was a white house with a FEMA trailer on its front lawn. Between 20 and 30 feet long, these trailers are meant to be replacements for the homes of whole families. They are tiny, and they reek of temporariness. The owner of the house, Margaret, had lived in this one with her daughter for about a year. They are lucky: FEMA doesn’t provide trailers unless the site has working gas and water hook-ups. Many families who need shelter were left with less than that.

Sometime after the storm, someone had laid a beautiful roof of new shingles on Margaret’s house. A few weeks before our team got to Mississippi, another team working with Westminster had gone to hang dry wall inside. The next day, a heavy rain had revealed that the roof was leaking like a sieve. The first roofers, whoever they were, had used shingles to cover wet and rotten baseboards. An aesthetic, surface-level fix that was nothing but a lie.

We climbed up on the roof and, working with another team from Tennessee, we got to work. We spent the first day demolishing the beautiful roof and revealing the ugliness underneath. Holes in the soggy baseboard. Broken rafters. Rats living (and dying) in the insulation. And, inside, the new drywall had been compromised. Wasted money, wasted time.

I am one for symbols and metaphors. There was something poignant about wielding shovels and hammer-claws and crowbars for monotonous and neck-wrenching hours in order to end up with more holes that when we’d started. Frustrating as it was to spend a full day of work tearing down what we wanted to rebuild, this was a part of the process. Nothing lasts long if it’s built on a rotten foundation.

Over the next two days, we laid the new roof. New baseboards cut to size and tar paper unrolled and stapled down in the surprising heat. I become a nail-gun virtuoso: exactly six nails in each sheet of shingles aligned and positioned just so. Working furiously, filling our hands with splinters and covering our clothes with tar, we were racing every day against time. There were no street lights, and, on our third day of work, as the sun started sinking into the horizon and the shadows started inching towards just being dusk, it became obvious that we were going to have to leave the roof unfinished, trusting that the team from Tennessee would be able to finish alone what we’d started together.

As we drove back from the worksite on Wednesday, after packing up all our tools and preparing the site for the rain that was forcasted to begin that night, I stared, frustrated, out the window at the houses as we passed. In all fairness, after three full days of work, with all that needed to be done, we should have been able to at least roof one house. But, then again, in all fairness, a lot of things would have been different.

Leaving: “We are still here.”

Ultimately, the point of my trip to Mississippi was to show the residents there that they had not been forgotten. One night, we delivered cookies to several Gulfport families. On another, we helped wrap Christmas presents for children at a battered women’s shelter in the area. Just our being there, walking down the street or the aisles of the supermarket, brought grins to people’s faces.

Since the storm, reports of domestic violence have tripled in number as people are forced into tiny trailers with their families and frustrations and pain. Many familes are paying mortgages on empty lots that they can neither live on nor sell. Sometimes new roofs still leak. And insurance companies are audacious in their estimates of the monetary value of a life, a history, a home. Every day, life finds new ways to grind down hope.

Martha Lee said: “It’s the second Christmas since the storm, and people are starting to wonder if things will ever get better.” As we drive down the coast for the last time before heading back to California, we see new houses and damaged houses and even FEMA trailers decked out for the holidays, ready to celebrate. And, on a lonely wall in the middle of an empty lot, the spraypaint says: “We are still here.” Still in pain, still in need. But still here.

Joggers pick their way down the beach. In an abandoned shopping center, a mom-and-pop pizza joint is open for business. Students are in school plays, and people are getting married. We are still here.

What you can do.

What’s left to do on the Gulf Coast? It’s complicated and it’s varied. In places like Gulfport, there are roofs to be laid. There are also museums to reopen and a long beach to make safe again. The city of New Orleans is only about 15% rebuilt and, though the famous French Quarter is just about picture-perfect, the poverty-stricken Ninth Ward is still in shambles. And that’s just one city in what was a federal disaster area of 90 thousand square miles. The Gulf Coast needs money, teachers for its schools, and people with hammers and shovels. And, when the past year and a half has seen alarming rises in suicide rates and cases of serious mental illness, it needs hope.

There are countless charities still at work on the coast. In addition to those that you’d expect, like the American Red Cross, there are organizations working to reunite pets with their owners. There are groups at work to bring music and the arts back into the region by donating instruments and costumes and scripts. Faith-based groups are donating millions to the area and are able, in some cases, to avoid the political bureaucratic red-tape and work directly with the people. If you have extra cash, there are many people who can put it to good use.

But, if you can, you should go there yourself. Groups like Habitat for Humanity are bringing together people who can help and people who need it. It’s not just the pain of the Gulf Coast. It’s the pain of America. It’s all of our pain. And there’s absolutely nothing in the world like being a part of the healing.

Gulfport RePost- Epilogue: Two Months Later

2009-07-17T22:45:00.000-07:00

When I woke up on our fourth day in Gulfport, our last day on the roof, I knew that there was really no way that we were going to finish it. I pulled on my favorite shirt, my lucky shirt, my Mammoth shirt that I've had since forever and have worn for almost all of my big tests and bad days. I pulled on my shirt without expecting a miracle: there was just too much to be done, and just not enough time in which to do it before the dusk brought the end of the workday and the promised rain. All day long that knowledge was over my shoulder, pushing me to work harder and faster and to become, at a few points, frantic and obsessive.

I fell in a hole.

Yes, in my hurry to clear the bare baseboards of scraps and equipment so I could begin shingling, I moved a piece of wood that had been covering a large hole so that no one would fall in. With the piece of wood in my hands, I couldn't see the hole it had concealed, and I fell in. Hard. I'm not sure the mechanics of what happened, since, as Karelyn said, "One second you were there, the next you weren't," but I do know that I ended up with a bump you could see through my jeans and a bruise covering half of my right thigh. If you were lucky enough to see me within the three weeks or so after I got back in Long Beach, I probably hiked up my skirt to show you. It was an impressive bruise. And perhaps it says something about my state of mind that I didn't stop to ponder the symbolism of the event. I was on the roof, I was through the roof, and then I was back on it, nail gun in hand. No pause to consider how my drive to accomplish my set goals had blinded me, made me unable to react to the truth of the situation. I didn't think about the difference between appearance and reality, between the roof that existed in my mind and the one that was actually supporting (or not supporting) my feet as I scrambled across it. I had other things to do.

I ruined my favorite shirt.

Yes, it was already well into dusk and we were already loading up the vans, but we still needed to put a seal of tar on the chimney so when the rains came (as they did, with impressive vigor) there wouldn't be any entrance for the moisture. I grabbed the tar and the trowel and started smearing and spreading. When my gloves got too sticky to use, I took them off. And, inevitably, I got covered in tar. We were going to dinner at Westminster Church that night (our dallying on the roof had already made us late), and I was utterly unpresentable, with tar coating my hands and arms, my pants, and my favorite shirt. After scrubbing with pumice soap and using some of the cheerfully offered home remedies from the Gulfport residents, I got my body clean. But my favorite shirt, my lucky shirt, my Mammoth shirt that reminds me of the Sierras every time I pull it on, is ruined.

I bring this up only because today I had a real desire to wear it. I woke up this morning feeling a little sick, and a little tired, and I could've used the extra boost. But I think I might like it better this way. It is, after all, only a shirt. It's a shirt that got me through my APs and my SAT and the grueling hike up to Duck Pass and my Random Voices audition, but it's just a shirt. And I'm not going to get so caught up in worrying about never wearing it again that I'm going to make it into something more important than that. One day it would have fallen apart and gotten ripped and I would've had to retire it anyway. It's just fabric and dye, and it wouldn't have lasted forever. And now it's got Mississippi tar on it. So that's kinda cool too.

Gulfport RePost- Day Five: I am singing in the rain

2009-07-17T22:44:00.002-07:00

12/21

the rain was still beautiful when i woke up this morning to make pancakes for the group. and it was still beautiful as it turned into knee-deep flooding in New Orleans and ruined our plans for the day. we piled into our vans and drove up and down the beach before heading back to the house for lunch and an afternoon of hanging out instead.

buddhism loves its water metaphors, maybe second only to those about fire. a river will look the same at any two given moments, but the water in it is different, constantly changing. water is a lesson about constancy and impermanence. as we drove along the coast i was struck most deeply by the loss of history on each side of the highway. on one side, the boardwalk has been completely destroyed, leaving only lonely posts and tiny landings every couple of yards. on the other, huge estates and gorgeous homes reduced to rubble. we passed a graveyard and a memorial park. we passed the last house of Jefferson Davis. irreplaceable things with decades and generations of stories. no matter how much hard work and money is poured into rebuilding, these things will never be the same, lost to the winds and the water.

and we took a drive to the roof where we'd been working one last time. the other team (from Tennessee) had finished the last couple hours of work, and it looked amazing. and, in the balmy Mississippi downpour, it wasn't leaking a drop.

it's easy to get overwhelmed when you focus on all the things that have been lost. here on the gulf coast, it's been lives and property and a sense of logic in the world. since the storm, cases of domestic violence have risen 300% as people are forced into tiny FEMA trailers with their families and frustrations and pain. every day life finds a new way to grind down hope. there's something else taken away that we thought we couldn't live without. there's a new obstacle to our future, a new doubt, or a new pain.

the spraypaint on the houseless wall says: "We are still here."

now. here. there are things to remember and things that just need to be let go. and slowly, carefully, there will be healing. new life in scorched forests and out of fallen redwoods. where there is despair, there will be hope. where there is darkness, light. where there is sadness, light. soon. but for now, i will sit in the dark and listen to the beautiful rain and breathe in, and then out. "We are still here."

We are still here.

Gulfport RePost- Day Four: I am a tar-baby

2009-07-17T22:44:00.001-07:00

12/19

as i write this, i'm sitting in the stairway just around the corner from where the girls are sleeping, typing in the dark so i don't wake them. through the window i can hear one of the most beautiful rains i've ever been in. big, heavy drops in a warm and still night. and i'm thinking about that roof that won't be finished tomorrow because of it, and i'm getting frustrated all over again.

it's been one of those days. we finished one of 5 flat sides of the roof, and it was one of the most satisfying things i've ever done. then we started on the next piece. and then, when that was done, the next one. so thrilling to be making such progress... but today was our last day working, and we didn't finish. i knew climbing up the ladder this morning that there was no way we would finish, but as the sun started sinking into the horizon and the shadows started inching towards just being dusk... no matter how quickly i worked the nail gun, and how much i tore up my knees moving across the shingles, there was nothing i could do but leave it unfinished. frustrating.

but, alternating with the frustration and gaining a lot of ground is the sense of satisfaction with a job well done, if not completely done. i was born to be a perfectionist (it's in the genes), and i can't seem to even make a peanut butter sandwich without smoothing and resmoothing and smoothing again. but, as i raced against the clock, i was forced to accept the limits of what was possible. at the end of the day, i had to hand the job over to the next group. i had no choice. and that was a little liberating. these aching arms and shoulders, these bruised knees and splintery fingers, and this huge and painful bruise on my upper thigh (there's and amusing story that goes with it) are all that i am able to give here and now.

driving back from the site, after packing up our tools and preparing the site for the eventual rain, i stared out the window at the houses as we passed. and perhaps the lesson in all of this is that making a difference doesn't mean fixing the problem. i can't be attached to that either. here's nothing i can do about the houses that are piles of rubble. there's nothing i can do about the FEMA trailers or the empty lots or the desperate spraypaint begging thieves and squatters to stay out of these places that once were homes. nothing i can do today, at least.

i feel like i'm missing something important here. there's a thought or a piece that i can't quite grasp...

tomorrow we take a final tour of Gulfport and then drive down the coast to New Orleans. once again, i don't know what to expect.

"she's my heart," said the grateful woman about her granddaughter, who was born two weeks after the storm. "she's just my heart."

Gulfport RePost- Day Three: I am a nail gun virtuoso

2009-07-17T22:43:00.000-07:00

12/19

back at the same worksite today, the house of a woman named margaret. today we put down tar paper over the new osb boards on the roof. "boy," we said to each other at 9 am, after an hour of work. "it's getting hot."

after the tar paper, we started laying down shingles. i wielded a nail gun virtually nonstop for about 6 hours. "wow," we sighed as we wiped sweat from our eyes and hot tar from our knees. "the sun is melting everything."

after two solid days of work, we're almost done. my knees are tender and my hands can barely form the fists needed to shake in frustration at the aching in my back... but we are almost done building a new roof for a woman who has been living in her driveway since the storm. and! it looks amazing.

i like feeling useful. in general, my talents are not particularly practical. i'm good at making snarky comments and bad puns. i can amuse myself and sometimes others with an adequacy in drawring and writing. i can sing. but i'm not the missing piece in any puzzle, i'm not the crucial cog in any machine. but i've got energy and time, and i'm willing to give them to Gulfport, even if only for a short while (although i think i'm going to want to come back). i find it kind of hard to believe that the little i can do makes any difference in the world. but there is a roof on a house that says that even i can do something important.

"it's important to remember," said gerald, "that while we're out here, real life is still going on." driving back to the house from the worksite, we see piles of rubble and empty foundations. we also see extravagant christmas displays and houses and trailers ready to celebrate. people are driving to and from work, and in the morning joggers pick their way across the beach.

"it's the second christmas since the storm," said martha lee, " and people are starting to wonder if things will ever get better." if not crucial, i am a cog in a machine that is making a positive change in people's lives. it feels good.

the nail gun explodes air from its end that sends dust and sawdust flying into my face. it's not a bad way to spend a day.

Gulfport RePost- Day Two: My new name is splinter-butt.

2009-07-17T22:42:00.001-07:00

12/18

perhaps because the air is wet and gray

gulfport this morning

is lonely (sabishii)

woke up way too early this morning. my own fault. i overestimated how much time it was going to take everyone to get ready. that's ok... i got to see the grays of gulfport turn into smoky reds. and so quiet. i wonder if it was like this before the storm?

leaving the house this morning, julia and i thought it was raining. but it was only the huge oak tree in front dripping morning dew from its leaves. coming from the airport last night, i saw lots of young trees where there used to be... something else.

today was spent roofing. more specifically, we worked on the roof of a lady who is currently living in a FEMA trailer on her front lawn. someone came in after the storm to fix her roof, but they only put on new shingles, and didn't replace the soggy boards underneath. so we tore up the lovely new roof in order to get to the rot underneath.

i am one for symbols and metaphors. taking shovels and hammers and crowbars for monotonous and neck-wrenching hours was a meditation that gave me time to think about destruction as a step in rebuilding and renewal. forest fires. many many cultures use pain as a part of ceremonies for rebirth. perhaps the screams of pain at childbirth become linked to the act itself, until suffering and new life become completely entwined, unable to exist without each other. whoever first fixed this lady's roof slapped on a happy exterior and then moved on.

some rot is deeper than the surface. sometimes back-breaking work results in more holes than when you started. my muscles are crying out in pain...

"it was kinda eerie," said andrea. "all those staircases leading to nothing."

Gulfport RePost- Day One: "There were houses here."

2009-07-17T22:40:00.000-07:00

12/17

our plane left the john wayne airport at an alarmingly steep incline at 8:30 this morning, careful not to awaken or otherwise disturb our orange county neighbors. the flight was generally quiet and comfortable as we made our way from southern california to the houston stop-over, but i was anxious. partly because i'd only slept about a half hour before leaving for the airport, but i think mostly because i was anticipating something i had no notion of. what, exactly, do i think i'm doing?

looking out the window of the plane (past robyn, who had gotten no sleep the night before and was making up for it with open-mouthed enthusiasm) i could see patches of partitioned land beyond the heavy cloud cover, but i had no idea where i was. somewhere between irvine and houston, i knew... somewhere over the southwestern portion of America. somewhere far enough over that the borders and cities and townships couldn't be distinguished, and everything just looked like land.

i started thinking about Om, the sacred syllable which both Buddhism and Hinduism recognize as the essential and universal sound of life. Supposedly, if you stand in the middle of a bustling crowd of thousands and pull back enough that you're hearing, not words, but just a collection of sounds, the sound you'll hear will be Om. is this because all the world, all of consciousness, sings Om whether they know it or not? or is it because Om describes this sound? which came first? from tens of thousands of miles above ground, i could imagine that the whole country was one entity, if not vibrating on one wavelength, at least singing in harmony. no lines except for the streets and the lazy meandering of rivers. we landed in houston (aka the George H. W. Bush Airport), and the first airport store we passed was the Fox News Store. awesome.

an hour later, we were in Gulfport, Miss. we were greeted by a charming lady named Martha Lee (!) who took us on a tour of the shoreline before we got settled in for the night. "There were houses here," she said. "Anywhere you see nothing, it's because there used to be something there."

Going back to Gulfport

2009-07-17T22:29:00.000-07:00

Let's see. The title pretty much says all there is. In December 2006 I went as part of a college-age mission trip to Gulfport, Mississippi to assist with rebuilding efforts there, a little over a year after Katrina. It was an incredible experience, physically, emotionally, and everything else.

On Sunday, I'm going back, this time as an adult leader on a high school trip. The kids we're going out with are great, and there's a whopping 18 of them. I can't even begin to predict how it's going to be, except that it'll be crazy. Like, awesome crazy.

Anyway. I don't think I'm going to be blarging from there, but I did think I'd repost the blargs I wrote from 2006, as they have heretofore existed only on MySpace, which is obviously lame. After I post those, I'll post the article I wrote for The Union Weekly about the trip.

If I don't write before then, I'll definitely write something when I get back. See ya'll in two weeks.

Dear Dillan–

2009-05-14T19:32:00.000-07:00

If I had known that nine years was all we'd get, I would have spent more of those nine years with you.

If I had known that memories with you were a scarce commodity, I would have stockpiled them when I had the chance. Instead, I have pictures on my computer, undated, and they are a slideshow in my head, silent and still. We are at a Labor Day picnic, and I have just locked your name into my mind forever because I have so many little cousins and it's hard to keep track, but you are the one who hands me a banana to open, your tiny fist stretching into the sky and your hair an explosion barely contained in a knot on top of your head. As you eat the banana, you lean back onto my leg and fall asleep standing up. I am looking at the camera, because how cute is that? I think you are saying something to me, but I don't know if or what it was. I wish I had that in my stockpile. Later I will hold you on one side and an umbrella on the other to shield you and our kinfolk from the sun. You are a pleasant weight, and I imagine that this is a very good way to start a friendship, that I will show you these pictures one day and you will find it hard to believe that you were ever so small.

I hope you know that I love you, and, even if no one can quite keep straight the first, second, and thirds and how many times removed, that you are my cousin, and that means that you are very important to me. When you are small, things change so quickly. A few months would pass, maybe a year, between visits, and I think you might have forgotten me. I didn't know time was so short. But I think that I hugged you hello and goodbye every time I saw you, and I know that you remember my wedding, just as everyone who was there remembers you. The last time I saw you, you were sleeping, exhausted from the chemo. I was with your mom the first time you got someone else's blood, which really freaked her out. And I was with her the day you died, and I sat with her on the beach and I watched the waves come in and wished that I had known you better.

I am sorry for all of the time we won't spend together, because I think we would have been great friends. Thank you for sharing some of your precious nine years with me. I am proud to be part of your family, and I think I will miss you every day.

"Oops," I said, unnecessarily.

2009-03-06T04:42:00.000-08:00

Please picture the following:

I, Mike, and Danfriend are at Chick-fil-A about half an hour before closing. I order a kid's meal (6 piece nuggets, if you must know) and Mike gets a chocolate shake. I wait with the tray for Dan, while Mike goes and sits down in a booth with some bud-buds. When Dan is ready, I pick up the tray and attempt to walk to the booth, but the way is blocked by "Caution: Wet Floor" signs. There is a woman mopping the floor.

I attempt to walk around the signs, and she says: "This section is closed!"

Okay, I think, and I attempt to go the long way around, only to find that my way is blocked on that side by a row of chairs. As I try and squeeze through them, the woman says again, "This section is closed! I've already cleaned it... I don't want to have to clean it again."

"No problem," I say. "I'm just going through to sit with my friends." I gesture to where Mike and the buds are sitting, in a section still populated by diners. Exasperated, she agrees, and I continue through the closed section, heading toward the booth of friendly faces.

Halfway through the clean section, I swivel to maneuver around a table and feel an odd weight shift on the tray I carry. I look down just in time to see Mike's untouched chocolate milkshake topple off the tray and explode on the freshly-mopped floor, splattering the tables, chairs, and walls of the area that, if it's not too much trouble, the cleaning lady would really rather I avoid.

There is a painful silence as every head turns toward the explosion. The woman hasn't figured out yet what's happened, being on the other side of a partition mopping another area. She knows something is up, but she's not yet sure what, as I stand helpless in the middle of the restaurant, milkshake dripping from my jeans onto the floor.

Silence, and then a precocious young lad rushes to the scene from his family's booth to stand, hands on hips, and shout: "Clean up on aisle seven!!"

It was one of the most perfectly constructed moments of my life, and I thought I would share it with you.

Sub Days?

2009-01-22T15:13:00.000-08:00

...sigh.

God Kills Another Puppy

2009-01-07T19:45:00.000-08:00

I was once lamenting the impending demise of Acres of Books with fellow bibliophile Val (not Kilmer) who remarked: "Every time a bookstore closes, God kills a puppy." If this is true (and I see no reason why it shouldn't be), then Heaven's doggy door will be a-swingin on Saturday, when Borders on Third Street Promenade gives its employees their last bag checks.

Since Borders is a mega-chain, not a unique treasure, though, maybe the puppy won't be quite as lovable as the one dispatched in Acres' honor. Maybe a puppy less like this:

And more like this:

Cute, but not unbearably so.

Whatever the associated puppy looks like, the closing of a bookstore is always a sad thing. This sadness is usually associated with an uncomfortable elation, since bookstore closures are often accompanied by closing sales. And, with such ridiculous savings to be had, the life of a vulture is a little less... um... gross.

Anyway. Carrion bird metaphors aside, bookstore closing sales are freaking tasty treats. Borders @ Third Street is offering 40% off everything, except Paperchase items, which are 75% off. Plus, all the fixtures are on sale, prompting me to ask Brian on more than one occasion: "Yes, but what would you do with it?"

I browsed half-heartedly through the shelves, which were, on Tuesday, already sparsely populated mockeries of their former selves. A half-dozen books from various sections in the store would be stacked on a random shelf among a haphazard collection of DVDs, greeting cards, and the occasional coffee cup. And everywhere were books I'd seen elsewhere and thought about getting: the Hapa Project's book, collections of religious scriptures, novels I might one day want to read by authors I know I'd love if I just gave them a chance. I had to keep reminding myself that 40% off was 60% on, and if I only half wanted the book... well, you do the math. And I was doing the math on a small stack of treasures when I was pleased to overhear the following:

Sixteen Year Old Girl: Oh my God! I love this guy!
Obliging Father: I don't know who that is.
SYOG: William S. Burroughs? He was one of the Beats.

SYOG went on to give her father a mini-lesson on Burroughs, the Beats, and the significance of the newly published And the Hippos Were Boiled in their Tanks. It was so cool. In the end, the line was just a little bit too long to convince me to whip out ye ol Visa card. And I was happy to leave my stack of treasures behind, in the hope that another girl and her father might bond over them and the closing sale that made them 40% more buyable.

Here's to books, and bookstores, and the puppies whose fates to theirs are forever tied.

Teacher Supplies: Goodbye to another Long Beach tradition

2008-12-28T17:30:00.000-08:00

As part of our Long Beach renaissance since returning from our road trip, Mike and I have been spending time and money in parts of our city we'd like to see return to glory. Topping the list is Belmont Shore, that part of Second Street that used to be home to independent shops and eateries, became a dumping ground for expensive boutiques and chain stores, and is slowly getting its identity back. When I was a kid, my family used to go down to Belmont Shore most weekends, eating lunch at Hamburger Henry's (best burgers EVER), strolling down for dessert at Grandma's Sugarplums (chocolate-covered everything!) and spending untold hours at Dodd's Bookstore (the whole front room was Dover classics). There was a random restaurant that had fake snow on the roof, and my dad would always lift me up to touch it. All of these landmarks are gone now, of course, replaced many times over by cafés and clothing stores that appeal to the tiny dog owners (syntactic ambiguity!) the BSBA courts. I'm not bitter, I just miss it.

Regardless of the changes over the years, including the closing of Hamburger Henry's doors, which was apocalyptic for our family, all of our trips to Belmont Shore– every single trip– included a visit to the Teacher Supplies store. If you've spent time in this charmingly wood-shingled store, you know what I mean when I say it's magical. In one corner of the store is an extremely satisfying collection of toys, puppets, and board games. In another, an extensive library of children's books, ranging from the newest Caldecott winner to books that were old when my papa read them to me twenty years ago. The rest of the store is populated with all the oddly-shaped, fantastically-colored odds and ends that are endemic to classrooms, this store, and no where else. Blocks that teach addition, maps of California missions, cardboard designed to hang on peg-boards, and countless other tools of the profession designed to delight and encourage the student imagination.

All of the above hopes to serve as explanation for why, on November 1st, about two months into my teaching credential program, I was dismayed to see "Going Out of Business" signs in the windows that peek into this extraordinary store. Retirement Sale! Up to 75% off! These are not banners you want to see hanging on a treasure like this, one that has endured and endured since 1971 as the rest of the street has changed, morphing into something a little less magical.

Stephen and I went in last week to look around and say our goodbyes. As I meandered through the children's library, I noticed how many of the books were dog-eared and well-loved by children like me over the past thirty years. Next to the ones that, judging from their age, were very likely the same copies of the books I thumbed through as a kid, there were new books addressing today's children: books about Obama, books about gay parents, books that should be discovered and browsed through in just such a city as ours, in just such a place as this.

The signs outside had led me to believe that maybe, after almost forty years of operation, the owner had gotten tired of running a retail store and had decided to travel, or to otherwise enjoy a well-deserved retirement. I was sad to see Teacher Supplies go, but I understood that change comes, even to places we most want to remain the same. But, as I stood in the store I overheard a conversation between a woman buying an extravagant marionette and one of the store's familiar long-time employees.

Puppet Purchaser: You're going out of business, hm? Don't you do good business here?
Friendly Face: Well, the toys do very well, but the teachers just don't have any money. We can't afford to make the store all-toys, so we have to close down.

Ouch. "The teachers just don't have any money." No money for foil-adorned #2 pencils (in bulk), no money for bright cardboard strips to border bulletin boards, no money for the boxed set of Jataka Stories lesson plans I found hidden on a top shelf, and no money to keep a Long Beach treasure in business.

I went into the store to buy something symbolic to put in my own classroom someday, as a relic of this place that meant so much to me as a child who loved to learn. I saw that the stock of the entire children's book section was on sale, along with the fixtures, for about a thousand bucks, and I almost gave Mike a call.

Taylor Mali on what teachers make

2008-11-03T21:34:00.000-08:00

Danfriend showed me this video, and it's pretty much great. I thought I'd share it with you.

I have a feeling I'll be watching it many times over the next few years...

More Sub Days, and More to Come!

2008-11-02T01:48:00.000-07:00

Hiya-

I think I'll have a real blarg in the next few days, but here's a tantalizing hint: today, in the mail, I got a package of letters from a 7th grade homeroom class apologizing for their collective behavior when I subbed for them on Wednesday. I'm not sure how I feel about this, but it's definitely weird.

Also, I hope everyone had an astonishingly good Halloween. I, for one, am Chicken Hat.

Sub Days 2 & 3: It's a Learning Process

2008-10-19T12:17:00.000-07:00

Last week I subbed two half-days at Garfield Elementary in West Long Beach. I can definitely say I'm getting better, though some of that confidence obviously comes from being able to tell the students that their teacher will be back in three hours. But it turns out that a lot of being a competent sub (and, remember, that's what teachers are hoping for. If you're actually good, that's just being an over-achiever) is pretending you know what you're doing. You know, act like you've been there before, even when you've got something called "recess duty" and you have no idea what you're supposed to be doing.

I mean really. They're playing some version of kickball that makes no sense to me.

Here are some things I've learned. Future educators, take note!

1. Bring a water bottle. For serious, this has been my number one difficulty so far. It takes a lot of spit to constantly ask kids to sit down and be quiet, and when all the little childers have their ice cold Sparkletts sitting unappreciated on their desks, wasted condensation dripping onto folded paper towels, it's almost too much to bear. My first day I cupped my hands and gulped faucet water from the back of the classroom during recess. On Friday, I seriously contemplated taking some birdie sips from an abandoned Aquafina while its owner was at lunch.

2. Wear reasonable shoes. Last week I felt that my status as an authority figure was undermined by my Converse sneakers when I had three separate second-graders comment that we were shoe twins. For Tuesday's gig, I wore these slip-ons (I think Sarah Jessica Parker would call them "flats"?) that I'd gotten from Target but never worn. By Friday, my pinky-toe blister had gone down enough that I could wear my comfy four-year-old boots. Besides the fact that a first-grader asked if I'd been born in Texas, by the end of the day I could barely stand up. So. I need shoes that are comfortable, are appropriate in every situation, and won't make me look like a Texan. I've already got them, but they're against dress code.3. Pick your battles. During my Tuesday gig (in a fifth grade classroom), I was teaching a lesson on sequence words. I started with the sentence "I got picked for kickball," and invited the students to add words to the sentence and, eventually, add sentences to the story. I was feeling pretty proud of myself for making up the lesson on the fly, and the kids were pretty into it. One girl in the back corner just couldn't stop talking to the people in her group, most of whom seemed to want to participate in the lesson. I called on her to add a sentence to our story.

Girl in the Back Corner: I kicked a home-run.
Me: Okay. Can you add a sequence word to that? Something that tells us when it happens in the story?
GitBC: Oh. I kicked a big-ass home-run.

Ugh. What do I do here? I don't want to give her the satisfaction of stopping the class and making everyone focus on her while I reprimand her. So I don't react. I keep pressing her until she gives an appropriate answer, and then I move on and finish the lesson. Success, or close enough.

4. Read the signs. Not in a mystical, crystal-bally kinda way. In a "check to make sure you're not parking in a Tuesday street-sweeping zone" kinda way. Nothing like losing two-thirds of your day's pay ten minutes after walking into the job.

5. Don't let it get to you. On Friday, I was a "roving sub," spending 45 minutes in each of four different classrooms. My last assignment was in a Kindergarten class, which I limped to in my boots, bending all the way down to a knee-high drinking fountain on the way. The kids were returning from recess in a single-file line, and I followed them into the classroom. Halfway there, the last five kids in line stopped, turned around, looked at me, and busted up laughing. Busted up! Inexplicably!! It was. So. Weird. That is all.

I might spend this next week doing some more classroom observation, so I'll have some time to let these life lessons marinate before I try and convince my feet to get back into their shoes. Substituting is odd, folks, but I think I might be getting the hang of it a little bit.

Sub Day #1: "Are you a teenager?"

2008-10-10T14:07:00.000-07:00

On Wednesday I strapped my shoes back on and took the plunge back into the world of the working: my very first substituting assignment, in a 2nd grade classroom at Emerson Charter School. Whoooooo boy.

First, let me just clarify the phrase "strapped my shoes back on." I literally mean that I put on the same clothing I used to wear to work at Borders: Target polo shirt (with a tank top underneath so as I don't bare my midriff), my only pair of jeans without holes in them, and my trusty Converse. The problem with needing to buy work clothes, see, is that you need to work to get the money to buy them.

The first thing I realize, walking onto the Emerson campus, is that I have no idea what I'm doing. I don't know where the office is, and I have only a vague idea of what I'm supposed to do when I get there. I've also shown up 40 minutes before school starts, and every one I pass in the hallway knows exactly what they're doing and exactly how they're doing it. The secretary hands me a time card and I have no idea what to do with it. Um.

The second thing I realize, walking to my classroom, is that oops! Maybe I don't really like children! It's been quite a while since I've had to deal with them directly, other than making faces at them while their parents aren't looking. Kidding. Except for those Mormon kids on the plane back from Hawaii that one time, about whom I have no regrets. Again, kidding.

When the bell rings, the children line up on the red line outside. "Are you our substitute? Where's Mrs. W--? I'm supposed to be in the front of the line. Did you know there's a small person in our class? Are you a teenager? What are we going to do today?" They are seven years old and they are hopping with energy. They aren't mean-spirited or defiant, they are just second graders and they can't stop talking, can't stop moving, can't stop asking questions. Ever.

By the end of the day, three children have sobbed at (or under) their desks. A girl got a paper cut, and a boy accidentally poked himself in the eye with his finger. One boy, who is apparently a grade or two more advanced in math and reading than his classmates, spends all day really bored and keeps trying to take a nap on the floor. When they come back from lunch, another boy won't stop singing the Freddy Kruger song: "One, two, Freddy's coming for you..." At the end of the day, it takes an extra 5 minutes to get everyone settled, and a mother is annoyed.

But! During storytime they all sit in enraptured silence as I read the Chinese Little Red Riding Hood story, Lon Po Po. It's something I'm good at, and it's pretty cool. And the teacher next door is really excited to hear that I've just joined the fraternity of educators and, impressed by my "pedigree," adds my number to his sub list.

Also, I found this hiding in the back of the classroom:

I walk out of the office to my car and I'm utterly exhausted, but, by golly, I did it. What's next?

QOD #4: It's all a bit overwhelming

2008-09-28T14:30:00.000-07:00

EXCELLENCE
"Excellence is the result of caring more than others think is wise, risking more than others think is safe, dreaming more than others think is practical, and expecting more than others think is possible."

One of the requirements for my Intro to Teaching English class (in addition to a massive amount of incredibly daunting paperwork, in triplicate) is 45 hours of classroom observation. Last week I started sitting in on the classes of the 8th grade English teacher for GATE classes at Stanford Middle School. For those of you who are wondering, yes, he was my English teacher an astonishing 10 years ago, when he was but a lad of 29.

Mr. Tate is ridiculously energetic, constantly launching into cartoon voices, dropping terrible puns, and generally refusing to let his 12 and 13 year olds zone out. Here's one I particularly liked: acting as a paperweight in the box for late papers is a statue of a dragon. Why? "Because if your work's here, you must have been draggin' your feet."

Har har.

Generally, Mr. Tate is fantastic. Therein lies the difficulty, from my point of view. I can very easily look at his teaching style, especially after the third hour of sitting through the same prep, and see what it is he does that works and why. Certain jokes he makes entirely for himself, just to keep himself entertained. If a particular example or explanation or punchline worked well one period, he'll do it again the next period, and better. He's good at talking to middle school kids on exactly the right level: friendly, but not yielding a bit of his authority. It's really quite cool. And the whole time I'm sitting there thinking "Crap. I can't do this."

Now, I know I'm still a long way from being in a classroom. And Mr. Tate has been doing this for 16 years. But that doesn't make it any less terrifying. Maybe if I'd been observing a teacher who was less capable it wouldn't be so daunting.

Anyway. The quote at the top of this post was the Quote of the Day for today's class. Mr. Tate took it from an inspirational poster he saw advertised in an in-flight mag. (Reminding me of another gem. When giving the background for this quote Mr. Tate said, "I'll tell you where I got this. Here's a hint: I was 30,000 feet in the air." To which the first audible response was: "Africa!") Students had 5 minutes to write their reactions/reflections on the quote. Most of them seemed to be responding to the implied prompt "What does excellence mean to you?" than anything else, but there were a few who got into the nitty-gritty of what the prompt was actually saying.

One of the girls raised her hand and asked, "What does it mean: 'caring more than others think is wise'?" My first response was wonder at the gap in life experience between this suburban gifted pre-teen and others in her city, her classroom, and her gender. Mr. Tate's answer was interestingly Buddhist in its gist– people die, things break and get thrown away, and everything disappoints eventually. Some might say it's easier not to get attached.

The expected response, of course, being that that's not how you change the world. Prof. Bartchy and I had a number of arguments about this in relation to Buddhist views on social justice. His view was that "not being attached" equals "not caring." Mine was that the relationship is subtler than that, and it includes the analogy of a child in a pet store. If he hasn't already picked out the puppy he wants, he won't be upset when one gets goes home with another child. But he also won't be able to walk away if he sees a puppy getting beaten or neglected– he can't say "at least mine is safe" and leave happily.

I've got stuff going on in my family that's left me reeling a bit and, when coupled with the stresses of Becoming A Teacher, I've gotten a bit overwhelmed. I'm sitting on my couch right now and I so don't want to go to class. I want to stay home and worry about all the other things I'm worried about.

But, as sappily cheesy as that quote is, I guess I haven't stopped caring yet. So I guess I'm going to keep working.

Who Educates the Educators?

2008-09-18T22:43:00.000-07:00

So. I've started the teaching credential program at CSULB. Single subject, English, to answer your next question. And when I say "I've started the teaching credential program," what I really mean is that I'm taking the class that will help me compile the requisite folder of paperwork and test results, prepare for the one-on-one interview, and collect my moolah so that I can enter the credentialing program. For how little teachers get paid, it sure costs a lot to become one. On top of the cost of books and tuition for the class, it's going to be about $275 in test fees, $100 in online processing fees, $50 in paperwork fees, five to ten dollars here and there for TB testing, fingerprinting, and etc and etc.

I'm guessing this will get a lot frustrating before I come out the other end. And then is when the real work begins.

My teacher was very upfront in the first class meeting: one of the purposes of the class is to help us determine whether or not this is what we really want to be doing. Teaching isn't an easy profession. Summers off are outweighed by the simple fact that, during the school year, there are vere few times in which a good teacher isn't thinking about the classroom. Am I ready to make that sort of commitment? The truth is, I don't know.

I believe absolutely in the importance of education. Whether it's nature or nurture, having two high school teachers for parents means it's a belief I've had all my life. I believe in the power of a teacher to transform the life of a student, and I've known plenty of people who simply never had that teacher. Who grew up ambivalent about reading, unimpressed by history, and preferring not to think beyond what's necessary for every day life. I think that those people have been failed by the education system and by each and every teacher who had the chance to change their lives and instead let them walk out their doors.

Just because I believe all that doesn't of course, mean that teaching is the job for me. But I do tend to have an "if not me, who?" view of the world. It's never been so expensive before, nor involved so much paperwork. I'm interested to see where this path leads me. And I hope you are too, because I think I'm going to start writing about it.

In the meantime, check out LBPOSTSports.com to see what me and the gang have been up to recently. Mike's a bona fide sports writer now, and he's pretty much tearing it up over there. Angie's responsible for the website being so cool, and I helped with a lot of the design-side, as well as providing a few of the pix.

Papa-san says: LOL! BRB!

2008-08-01T11:26:00.001-07:00

My 73-year-old dad just bought his first cellphone.

Stop me if you've heard this one before.

It's a flip-phone, which means that half the time he opens it upside-down. And when he finally does get it right, he usually stares at the screen for a second or two, running through the pattern in his head to make sure he hasn't left anything out: phone rings, open phone, put phone to ear, say "hello." And he usually talks a little too loud, and sometimes his first attempts at answering the phone involve a slapstick of fumbling and grasping like an inexperienced fish-thrower down at Seattle's Pike Place. But he's learning. Yesterday I showed him how to enter contacts (it'll take a while before he's confident with those itty-bitty letters) and he recorded his first outgoing voice mail greeting.

"You've reached Coach Higa. I'm sorry, but I am unavailable to come to the phone right now, as I am either on the tennis courts or on the golf course. But if you leave a brief message and your name, I'll try to get back to you as soon as I'm done having fun. Aloha!"

I laughed and he said, "You know, I might not be doing one of those things. I just thought it was funny. Is that ok? Can I say that?"

I told him he could say whatever he wanted and agreed that it was funny. And people would sure know it was his phone they'd reached. I played the message back for him. "Is that really how my voice sounds? Doesn't sound like me. When I call you, is that how I sound?"

And I showed him how to pick a ringtone (he chose a polyphonic melody straight out of a 70s buddy cop movie), then I helped him determine a proper volume level. We had to walk a very thin line between what was audible to him and what was too loud for innocent bystanders. I think we settled on "Medium High."

I think my favorite moment was when he navigated to and called the first contact he'd entered himself. It was his buddy Smith and, after a little bit of jaunty small talk, he announced, "Well. I'm calling you on my new toy! Yes, Shar is here showing me how to use it."

There were lots of great moments. My big brother and I shared a few looks and, after he'd accidently hung up on someone as he tried to open the phone and then run out of the apartment saying "Hello? Hello. Hello?" to an empty phone line, my brother said: "You know, they make phones especially for people like him." And they do. Big buttons, few functions, easy to master and hard to mess up. But I think I rather enjoy teaching my dad how to use his new toy. And not just because of the entertainment value. If my dad, who 10 years ago decided that he'd rather buy an electric typewriter than learn how to turn on the computer, can learn the fine art of text messaging, then I feel like there's no excuse for the rest of us who sit on our butts, knowing a lot and too lazy to keep learning.

Anyway, the point of this is to tease to you all that I have some ideas about the future of this blarg. And also to share that now, when "Da Cell" calls me, this comes up on my screen:

Acres of Books: a sad farewell & a dilemma

2008-07-22T14:01:00.000-07:00

It should come as no surprise to you that I love books. I do. I really, deeply, completely love them. Mike is okay with this. Mike loves books too.

It probably shouldn't surprise you either that I love Long Beach. Not just because I live here, and not just because it's where my hubby lives as well. I love it because it's a beautiful, complex, and flawed city. Beautiful: I have never, no, not in over 11 thousand miles of American roads, seen anything like the El Dorado Nature Center. Complex: in a constant identity crisis, we're the biggest little city there is, and one of the most ethnically diverse places in America. Flawed: well, there's Acres of Books.

Acres of Books, just up Long Beach Blvd. from the hideous mistake that is the New Pike, is one of Long Beach's most beloved landmarks. Established in 1934, it's been in its current location since 1960. In the decades since then, it's given Long Beach residents something to be unabashedly proud of. Ray Bradbury wrote in its back rooms and, in an essay celebrating his time spent wandering there, he writes: "I go there on rainy days for a good dose of this lostness, plus the grand incense of book dust, which I deeply inhale as others take snuff, and clean the booktops with a sneeze."

There's a cat, of course. All good used bookstores have cats. There are rows and rows of oddly-organized bookshelves, each title reminding you of three others you want to search for. There are side rooms to hide in, there is a massive fiction room filled with authors you'd forgotten you loved. There are slightly gnome-ish employees scuttling around, unlikely to approach you, but extremely helpful when cornered. In short, it is a city block of awesomeness, an oasis of culture in a largely ruined downtown, the kind of place that you're glad to know is there, even if you haven't visited as often as you'd like, because you can be assured that its labyrinthine aisles hold all sorts of literary magic that perhaps the unsuspecting public is not yet ready for.

In April, for $2.8 million, the current owner of Acres (the grandson of its founder) sold its land to the Long Beach Redevelopment Agency. It is likely to be condos soon. Soon there won't even be a place to hang a plaque, no where to leave a tattered pulp paperback in sorrowful memory. As Bradbury said, soon they will "cement the whole damned thing over."

Acres has until May of next year to vacate the premises. For a while they were looking at a new location, but it seems those plans have dried up. Their closing sale started last week, and their press release says that everything is priced to sell. I don't know if I can do it.

I don't know if I can go down and look in the faces of the people scurrying through those hallowed catacombs, some just looking for a good bargain but most, I'm sure, mournfully keeping vigil, wanting one last memento from one of the most wonderful things Long Beach has ever been a part of. I don't know if I can go up to the counter with a stack of too many books for too little money, hand over some bills, get my change, and walk out of Acres of Books for the last time. I don't know if I've got the guts.

Day Forty: A daydream believer

2008-05-27T14:28:00.000-07:00

Today (as in real-time today, not blarg-time today) I realized that I have left my adoring readers stranded with blarg-me in Monterey. I have left them (you, really) wondering: will Shar ever get home? Will she be forever in northern California, so close, yet so far from her final destination? What, oh what, has happened to Mike-n-SharTours 2008? So, without further ado, my friends, here is the chronicle of the last day of our trip.

Those of you who read Mike's blarg (and I hope for your sakes that that's everyone) knows the story of the morning of Day Forty. We woke up in Monterey exhausted on pretty much every level. We had been thinking of spending a few days with our dear old roomie in San Francisco, but now driving another hundred miles away from home seemed utterly ridiculous. Not when we were so close. So we showered, dug through the car for our least stinky clothes, and called Robyn. We promised to visit her this summer, after we'd had some time to readjust. Then we were off to breakfast.

We caravaned with Val & Whit and their friends to Whole Foods, planning to buy some pastries for breakfast and some sandwiches to take with us to the aquarium. Through happenstance, we ended up sitting alone in a booth while the rest of the birthday party sat at two tables a bit away. We didn't say much, just munched in the comfortable silence of meals on the road. And I'm not sure how we decided it, but when everyone was done eating and Whitney came over to fetch us, he said "Aquarium?" and we said "Yeah...about that..." And, giddy as the day we got married, we said our goodbyes and hopped back in the Blue Hornet. We could see the aquarium another day. We were going home.

Our giddiness was quickly replaced by the first carsickness of our forty day journey. We weren't in the mood for back-tracking forty miles to a major freeway, so we took small and winding roads to the 101, enjoying the scenery because it was California scenery. And, while being homesick and road-weary didn't make us the most objective of critics, you can't argue with the azure sheen of the Pacific on a clear Sunday afternoon. You just can't. And as we headed back home on the same freeway we'd used to drive away, on Day One of the trip a lifetime ago, I thought about what had made me chortle that first day. Mike had said: "Why would anyone even try and argue that anything's better than California?" I had laughed then, and I laughed again now, because he was right. Nothing that we'd seen, gorgeous and mind-blowingly amazing as our trip had been, nothing we'd seen in all those days of driving came close to being as flat out amazing as our home state.

We listened to "Wagon Wheel" one more time, and we crossed the Long Beach city limit halfway through the last chorus. Yeah, and I cried like a baby.

Final tally: 11,136.2 miles of American road.

Songs: Stevie Wonder's Greatest Hits, Graduation (Kanye West), Incognita (Random Voices), "Wagon Wheel" by Old Crow Medicine Show, and the there's-nothing-like-it-in-the-whole-USA click of our key in our lock. Home.

Ask about it: "An inconvenient poop."

Hear us both talking about our trip on Episode 31 of SportsNight, available for download at sportsnight.podomatic.com. Read Mike's journey log at LBPostSports.com. And, of course, his regular blarg is still spittin' out goodies at astoriedyear.blogspot.com. Mike is great.

Day Thirty-Nine: Right (approximately) back where we started from

2008-05-22T16:42:00.000-07:00

They say a good night's sleep heals all wounds. Actually, maybe that's not what they say. They say something, and it has to do with all wounds getting healed. I think I saw it in an Aloe Vera commercial. In any case, I woke up the morning of Day Thirty-Nine feeling a lot better. A lot better, and also really, really ready to get going.

First stop was a awesome and a random one. We had originally planned on getting home via a northern route through northern Utah. But when we heard that my dad was going to be in Las Vegas for his (whopping) 55th high school reunion, we thought to ourselves: "Hey! You know what's better than Utah?" So, in addition to the hundreds of California license plates in the parking lots and the streets and other evidence of our alarming proximity to home, we got to breakfast with Papa Higa at the California Hotel. Off the strip in the "Downtown" area, the California Hotel is the go-to stop for folks from Hawaii. The familiar and friendly faces of a casino full of people who looked like they could be my aunties and uncles was a welcome contrast to the patrons who had alarmed me so the night before. And a Hawaiian clientele meant that I could be assured that there would be rice on the buffet. Plus, my Papa-san is freaking rad, so, as he would say, the whole breakfast experience pretty much "hit the spot."

Of course, when we pulled out of the parking garage, we were heading back on the road, and that was another thing altogether.

Day Thirty-Nine was a day of milestones and victories, but it was also one of the more difficult ones of the trip, kinda all for the same reasons. Day Thirty-Nine was the day that we finally, finally, after more than five weeks of driving, crossed that lovely California state line. And it was also the first day since heading westward in Vermont that we made a very conscious decision to drive away from home. We were having dinner and other birthday festivities in Monterey with our unnecessarily wonderful friend Val, her equally awesome boyfriend Whitney, and an assortment of their beautiful friends, including our very own Angie. It was certainly something fun and exciting to look forward to, but it also meant getting to within an hour and a half of home and then turning right and driving for six hours. I think I would've been okay, but there was a billboard right around the state line advertising the local pizza place just down the street from my parents' house, to which I would often walk for lunch on summer days. I admit I teared up a bit, and then we kept on keeping on.

We arrived in Monterey to find our friends relaxin' pool side, giving that gorgeous California sun a good ol' chlorine washing. I'm afraid we may have made a poor impression on those who didn't know us already, as we were more than a little overwhelmed by the circumstances. But we had a blast anyway, exhausted and road-weary as we were, and we were glad to be back with California folk, on California soil, even if it was a little north of home. What does 365 miles really mean, in the grand scheme of things?

We listened to: "California Girls" by The Beach Boys, "California Love" by 2Pac, Californication (Red Hot Chili Peppers), "Winding Road" by Bonnie Summerville, "More Bounce in California" by Soul Kid #1, and the sweet sounds of K-EARTH 101.1 gently rocking us into a Motown Weekend.

Mystery Words: "That's not even a thermometer."

Mike's all caught up!: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Thirty-Eight: If you've ever been a lady to begin with

2008-05-19T23:36:00.000-07:00

Day Thirty-Eight was probably one of the hardest of the trip. We woke up in Cassie's house, dragging our feet as we packed and prepared to leave the comfort of a place we could call "home" for the long, long road ahead. We had an eleven hour drive ahead of us, and at the end of it we would be in our own time zone, just a three hour drive from Long Beach. It was almost incomprehensible. As I packed up the car, I made BFFs with an old lady out for her early morning walk. "Going on a trip?" she asked. "Nope," I said. "We're going home." She'd noticed our California license plate, and she confided that her children had grown up in Whittier. I wanted to explain to her that it wasn't what she thought: we weren't a young couple a two-days 'drive from home, staying with a friend in Denver for a few days and then heading back to our homes, just twenty minutes south on the 605 from where she had grandchildren. It wasn't like that at all. But how could I possibly explain how ludicrous it was, how crazy we felt, how we were positive that the Rockies in the distance were an illusion, that we'd be driving forever and never cross them, never traverse those last few inches between us and the jagged line our atlas assured us was the Pacific Coast? I smiled and she wished us luck, and then she walked on.

The Rockies weren't impossible after all. They were, in fact, gorgeous, and the snow on the ground and flurries in the air reminded us of the eleven hour drive we'd taken just one country's-width due north, when we were young and enthusiastic. When we came down out of the mountains it was almost immediately swelteringly hot, and the 60° temperature shift may have contributed significantly to the way the rest of the day played out.

Ryan "Just Call Me a Cow, Cuz I'm Always Tippin" Poohausen earned his nickname by giving us some solid advice on how to stay in Vegas. On his recommend, I booked a room at the Tropicana, which was a great location and great value for a very reasonable price. What we didn't realize was the effect Vegas on a Friday evening would have on us after a day's worth of driving in almost complete solitude. There were way too many people, they were way too loud and way too drunk and they were standing way, way too close to me. We played the slots for a while (and we would've won 49¢ if we'd quit while we were ahead), then got a few minutes into exploring The Strip before it was just too much for me, and we retreated to our room where we collapsed exhausted and overstimulated. Money, baby.

We listened to: Greatest Hits (Nirvana), What's the Story? (Oasis), and our official return to the West as we cheered with a hundred Lakers fans for the close of game 6.

Mystery Words: "Let me refill your water."

Mike?: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Thirty Seven: The skies were blue and hazy...

2008-05-16T23:04:00.000-07:00

We tried to sleep in on Day Thirty-Seven. Really, we did. We had breakfast plans with Cassie, but on a "whenever you get up" sort of way. And, after a hellishly long drive the day before, we were expecting to be pushing that deadline for all it was worth. Instead, I woke up at 9 (which was, of course, a more respectable 10 am in St. Louis), unable to force myself back to sleep. Which was just as well, because we had an awesome day ahead.

Breakfasting at a local diner (we were duly warned that the place was infested with old people), we were startled to see hail plummeting from a previously clear sky onto the open patio. Evidently, this drastic weather change isn't atypical for Denver. The previous week it had vacillated from mid-seventies to snow to rain within days. It's just mountain weather, I know, but it felt like seeing our whole trip in fast forward: the snowstorms in Washington and Minnesota, the heavy heat of the South, the earth-shaking thunderstorms of St. Louis, and on and on and on. By the time we were finished eating, the sun was back out and the sky was cloudless.

Cassie left for work (teaching music to 3 year olds, thank you very much) and Mike and I left for our lazy tool-around of Denver. It was Thursday and, since we didn't want to stop in Kansas (for any reason) the day before, our first step was to Mile High for comics. Mile High? More like Square-Mile In Area! More like Mile-oh-My It's Big! We were utterly dazzled, and we wandered through row after row of trade paperbacks, memorabilia, shirts, and posters with mouths hanging open. Hopefully Janet Pym didn't fly in.

From there, we drove to downtown Denver, to the site of what had been, four years ago, the site of my favorite dinner ever. I'm pretty sure the place has changed its name, but the idea is the same: a buffet of raw meat and veggies with a giant wok at the end. It's Mongolian BBQ at its best, and it's only (I think) in Denver. As we walked in the door we saw on one of the many TVs tuned to news channels that California courts had just overturned the ban on gay marriage in the state. We can't wait to get home and celebrate... we've never been prouder to be Californians.

A delicious dinner with our lovely hostess at a small and slightly awkward Thai place, and then we were eating Klondike bars in Cassie's kitchen, staying up way too late talking about old friends, real estate prices, and Cameron Diaz.

Today we listened to: Cassie and me singing songs from "Ragtime: The Musical" and remembering 8th grade.

Mystery words: "So... you know about what happened, right?"

Mike, Mike, Mike: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Thirty-Six: Gonna have ourselves a time

2008-05-16T06:10:00.000-07:00

Day Thirty-Six started out cool and misty in St. Louis. Mike was angelic and woke up first, so I could steal an extra few minutes cuddled under the covers, dreaming of mornings spent sleeping late in our own bed, with suitcases stored away in the garage and both cars parked outside our apartment. I'll admit I've taken to drooling over Google Streetview, which has extended to our street. But I digress. The point is, we woke up this morning in St. Louis. As I type this now, we're in the basement of the lovely Cassie B.'s home in Denver, CO. Over twelve hours of driving, and we're now just a time zone away from good ol California.

If you're wondering what it's like to drive from St. Louis to Denver, let me just say this: it's long. It's really long. About a half hour after pulling off the curb in front of Holly's house Mike looked at me and said, "Well, I guess we'd better have a stimulating conversation." We tried it for a while, with me asking "If you could choose..." and "What one thing..." questions that quickly (i.e. in an hour) disintegrated into silliness as we discussed which historical defensive line would have the best chance of sacking Batman. Acknowledging, of course, that no one would actually be able to. Two hours down, ten to go.

The crawl across Kansas and Missouri was just like you've heard. Flat, flat lands with no end in sight. Sometimes place names were amusing, but there just were too few places. We listened to the last 3 hours of The Great Gatsby and reminisced about great English teachers we'd had. Denver was only a half page of the atlas away, but it's those last three hundred miles that kill you. And, when an early evening haze is obscuring the Rockies, you begin to doubt whether Denver wasn't all just an elaborate hoax, whether there's any end at all to the journey.

There was, and it was in the form of a ridiculously awesome dinner at Casa Bonita, which is just as amazing as Cartman made it out to be. A man dressed as a gorilla juggled and pushed a garishly dressed woman off a cliff into a pool below. There was a piñata. There was a fire diver. All of this cleverly distracted from the way below mediocre Mexican food (think nacho cheese enchilada). Our spirits lifted, we drove to Cassie's house in the ever-so-familiar sounding suburb called "Lakewood."

Cassie is, though I hadn't seen her since ninth grade, just as great as I'd remembered her to be. We got to meet her lovely fiance, then set up shop in her basement, where we watched the basketball game and trundled to an early sleep with a gorgeous kitty snuggled between us. Ah. I could get used to this.

We listened to: The Great Gatsby, The Pride is Back (David Cross), The Clarence Greenwood Recordings (Citizen Cope), Songs from an American Movie, pt. 1 (Everclear), and a roving mariachi band singing a birthday song to at least a third of the hundreds of tables at the Beautiful House.

Mystery words: "The Cathedral of the Plains"

Mike is more daily than I: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Thirty-Five: One More Day

2008-05-13T21:45:00.000-07:00

Day Thirty-Five started out loudly, with house-shaking thunder jolting me awake at around seven. The rain was torrential, and lightning flashed distantly, then not so distantly. I shivered under the blankets and was grateful for the cozy weight of Ricky, the handsome cat, at the bed's foot. But at nine I forced myself out of bed, exhausted though I was, because we had to get back on the road.

Hours later, we were still at Holly's, having whiled away the morning enjoying our first ability to both waste time online simultaneously. Around eleven, Mike finally decided to go down to the car for clean clothes, so we could start our long and dismal journey across Missouri and Kansas, away from the warmth and comfort of St. Louis. He had almost made it to the door of our room before he proposed that, instead of walking all the way down the stairs, we stay instead an extra day. The benefits to this plan were many: we could spend another day with Aunt Holly, relax and enjoy the city for a while, and save ourselves the horror of spending a night in Kansas. So it was decided and Mike was able to avoid a clean shirt for another few hours.

We walked down to Delmar Circle, which is a really cool little district that holds the charm I think we all hope for every time we visit Second Street in Long Beach. We ate a leisurely lunch at a restaurant that serves noodles of different variety (I had stir-fried udon, Mike had mac & cheese), then hopped down a few more stores to Star Clipper, which was nice enough to supply us with all of the comics we'd missed since leaving DC. The thunderstorm of earlier this morning had turned into a beautiful, sunny day, and yes, we were glad to be enjoying it at less than 65 mph.

No "hooky from hours of driving" day is complete without a trip to the zoo, so Mike and I hopped over to the St. Louis Zoo, proclaimed (by a banner at its entrance) to be the #1 zoo in America. We aren't in a position to disagree, but our position may be biased: we spent our entire hour there surrounded by real live DINOS!!!!!!! They roared at us, clawed the air around us, and even spat neurotoxins at us. And all this was even before we went into the motion simulator, 3-D documentary of the trip to (and subsequent escape from) Dino Island.

We ended the day with delicious Mexican food (I know, we were surprised too) with Holly, basketball with the cats, and the realization that our awesome day was photodocumented entirely on a camera for which we have no USB cord. Tomorrow we make up time by driving for 12 hours. I'd say: utterly worth it.

Today we listened to: purrs from Ricky and stony silence from the other two cats, and the unmistakable roar of a T-Rex about to make you regret the day you ever set foot on Dinosaur Island.

Mystery words: "Spa or kayak?"

Mike!: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Days Early- to Mid-Thirties: Why I could never have a storied year

2008-05-12T21:36:00.000-07:00

So, I'm way behind on my daily blargs, as I'm assuming the few of you (Mike) who checks this URL compulsively several times before lunch have noticed. Partly this is because my good ol' lappy has been out of commission since her power cord lost the ability to conduct "the juice" from the wall socket to the battery. I blame this on Conor, and he, I'm sure, knows why. Rather than try to write twice a day in a Sisyphusian struggle to catch up, here is a quick overview of the days leading up to today (Day Thirty-Four) and a hearty entreaty for you to read Mike's blog for the rest of the story.

Day Thirty-One; Niagara Falls proves to be powerfully awesome, despite our fears that it will be powerfully underwhelming. This is in stark contrast to other large American tourist attraction which shall remain anonymous for the sake of preserving the dignity of the four huge-headed presidents for whom said attraction may hold special significance. We also visit the Buffalo campus of the University of New York where Mike goes into that Joyce-induced drooling trance that only Laurel has had the pleasure of seeing in person.
Day Thirty-Two: We decide to skip Cleveland, much to Drew Carey's disappointment, trading it for five hours at the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, OH. This proves to be an excellent choice, and we spend our half day hob-nobbing with the bronze-encrusted greats. I wish I had brought my Jeffy G jersey, but as we test-drive next season's Madden game, I quarterback scramble him into the endzone, so all is as it should be.

Day Thirty-Three: We drive into Indianapolis and spend a couple hours finding some important Vonnegut sites that will, in a few years (at most), be stops on a pilgrimage route and home to societies and museums. For now, it took a lot of Googling to find them, and we seemed to be the only ones to have been looking. I want to write more about this later, so hopefully I'll get a chance. Suffice it to say, I'm glad we did it. We spend the night with Mike's famously awesome aunt in St. Louis.

Day Thirty-Four: We take a day trip to Hannibal, MO, which is Twain country, in case you haven't noticed. Their vending machines have his face on them, every business in Historic Downtown is named after his characters, and there is the constant threat of living history actors. We hop on the Mark Twain Riverboat, which takes us on an hour-long tour down the Mississippi, then grab some delicious treats at Becky Thatcher's Ice Cream Parlor. It's all fun and games until my camera falls out of my lap, Mike gets a speeding ticket, and we get lost on the way back to Holly's house. But we have an amazing dinner, frozen custard for dessert, and Holly even loaned us a handsome kitty to sit on the foot of our bed. What a lady.

We listened to: Joshua Tree (U2), Whatever & Ever Amen (Ben Folds Five), The Great Gatsby, Songs for Tomorrow Morning (The Bobs), The Essential Vonnegut Interviews, Good News for People Who Love Bad News (Modest Mouse), The Essential Mark Twain, Roll On (The Living End) and Mike and me singing the Monday Night Football theme all the way to and from Canton.

Mystery words: "Niagara Falls: a mob front?" Although it's not really a mystery, because the answer is yes.

Mike turns his drools into pretty words: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Thirty: Back on the mooove.

2008-05-11T14:53:00.000-07:00

Our first day back on the road after a refreshing multiple-day oasis, Day Thirty was exciting and rejuvenating even as it was blearily sad to put a place with family and familiarity into our rearview mirror. We started out the day with a delicious breakfast at Seven Stars Bakery, a delightful Providence favorite stocked with locally roasted coffee and freshly crafted artisan pastries. Stephen purchased two sourdough baguettes for our trip (something which, I'd like to point out, my mother once refused to do, even though I was starving to death in a dream I once had). We had put 6,749 miles on ol' Blue Hornet since March 31st, which meant we had a third thing to look forward to that day: hitting seven thousand miles since we first turned left on Los Coyotes Diagonal.

The other two items on our list for Day Thirty? Well, the first proved to be a milestone in itself, because it was where Mike and I learned just how much ice cream was, you know, probably enough for today. We drove through Massachusetts, cut through New Hampshire, and found ourselves in Waterbury, Vermont just a few minutes before the start of the half-hourly tour of the Ben & Jerry's factory. Oh, and it was much awesomer than you might think. The only damper on the fantastic was a mother who could not keep her three-year-old from bashing into everything and everyone around, and who could not keep his poopy pants from wafting through the observation deck and mingling forever in association with Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough and Karamel Sutra. But it was nothing a few samples of Strawberry Cheesecake couldn't fix. And, when you throw in a couple scoops of our favorite flavors from the adjoining shop and a jaunt through the third- or fourth-coolest graveyard we've seen so far, it was all in all pretty darn cool. Hehe.

As we left Ben & Jerry's, we achieved our second objective for the day, one that, I'll admit, got us a little emotional. We started our long southwest diagonal towards home. Driving through the gorgeousness of Vermont, it was hard to take road pictures because the setting sun was illuminating all the bug splatters on the windshield for the first time in a really, really long time. And, when we unpacked our bags in the parking lot of our hotel in Rome, NY, we imagined that maybe we could kinda sorta see the Pacific Coast in the horizon. Of course, this was just the lingering effects of that famous Vermont sugar high, but we had a bounce in our steps nonetheless. It's like Ryan Poohausen's ringtone says: "California, here we come!"

We heard with our ears: "Wagon Wheel" (twice), The Cool (Lupe Fiasco), The Great Gatsby, Death to the Pixies (Pixies), and the assertion, from our B&J's tour guide, that milk stools have only three legs because AND I QUOTE: "Someone stole the udder."

Mystery words: "Horse and Buggy Xing"

Mike is hungry for ice cream again at: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Days Twenty-Six thru -Nine: Home (far) away from home

2008-05-09T18:21:00.000-07:00

Me: So... is this house haunted?
Stephen: No.

I realized as we drove towards the interstate on Day Thirty that it had been years since my big brother and I had slept under the same roof. It's one of those landmarks that comes and goes unnoticed: I don't remember my last day sleeping at my parent's house. I don't remember the last time Stephen coming home for school vacation meant me waking up to the sounds of oddly shaped stringed instruments humming through the wall between our rooms. I'd knock on his door and he'd be standing with his lute or banjo or guitar in his arms, branches borrowed from the front yard covering his ceiling, random bits of art cluttering shelves overstuffed with books that, after years of coming home in May and going elsewhere in August, he'd had to leave behind. There would be a kitty looking up at me from the bed, unsure of whether she was enjoying the music, but definitely enjoying the attention. For countless years, these were my summer mornings. Afternoons were for walking for food or for books. Evenings were spent singing and chatting until we couldn't stay up any longer. When we'd begun planning this trip, I hadn't realized how much a half-week in Providence was going to mean to me.

Stephen lives with eleven other college students in Finlandia, a co-op a few blocks from Brown University and the Rhode island School of Design. The residents are friendly and delightfully odd, and they clearly think my big bro is as cool as I do. Mike and I slept in a little guest room on the top floor, under a blanket that, through some cosmic coincidence, had the same slightly sinister print of Kermit the Frog strumming a guitar as Stephen used to have on his curtains at home. Downstairs, the walls of the kitchen were covered with amusing and incriminating quotes from over two decades' worth of Findy residents. On our first night, a fellow offered us some home-brewed ginger beer. We spent a couple hours late one night discussing odd finger formations and the ability to clap really, really fast. It was pretty much awesome.

Mike gives a good day-by-day for what we did while we were in Providence. Let me add to his account by saying that, between eating well, sleeping plenty, meeting new people, exploring a beautiful little city, and lunching in Boston with the delightful Tina, these were some of my very favorite days of the road trip. Plus, I got to see my brother perform in concert for the first time in four years. As I watched him with his medieval music group, Resonanda, as they blew the socks (and Birkenstocks) off the audience that had overflowed the mausoleum in which they sang, I will admit my eyes watered a bit with actual human emotion. I was so glad to be exactly where I was, sitting next to my hubby, thousands of miles from home, watching my big brother be freaking amazing.

We listened to: Mitch All Together (Mitch Hedberg), Cantigas de Santa Maria as performed live, in concert, by Resonanda, and the unique cacophony of five people trying simultaneously to demonstrate their fastest clapping.

Mystery words: "the Hitler of saints" and "Amasa Sprague"

Mike's blarging again: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Twenty-Six: So many Providence puns...

2008-05-04T22:35:00.000-07:00

The first thing I noticed when I woke up on Day Twenty-Six was that the breakfast we'd ordered the night before as a congratulations for Mike (aka "I just wrote 366 stories in 366 days") was not, in fact, waiting for us outside our door. On the floor in its stead was our copy of the (absurdly high) charges for the room. Not nearly as delicious as an English muffin would have been, but we ate it anyway. On principle.

Our trip up to Providence was quick and expensive: the total cost of tolls on roads and bridges was over $20. That's over twenty dollars for about 4 hours of driving. I hope New York, New Jersey and Connecticut understand that they just robbed us of 3 matinee showings of Iron Man.

Two excessively geeky detours (a stop to see the Long Island area where The Great Gatsby was set and a drive through Stamford, CT, the site of the kick-off for Marvel's Civil War comics series) and we were in Providence. A mere half hour of driving haphazardly lost through the one-ways and diagonals of this tiny capital city, and then we were pulling in to Finlandia Co-op. And it's got its decidedly co-op-ish feel, but it's friendly and there's a guest room on the top floor. Not to mention a tea house on the corner where Mike and I sat for a few hours today solving the world's problems with greater and greater efficiency as we grew more caffeinated. And not to mention my big brother downstairs. It's going to be an awesome next few days.

Today we listened to: the very last words of On the Road, and a string quartet version of Maroon 5's "Secret" playing amidst equally random selections from the speakers in a cafe.

Mystery words: "Turn right at the blinking hand."

Mike's taking a break today. But catch up & comment on some of the 366 stories you may have missed: astoriedyear.blogspot.com (there's some real goodies in March)

Day Twenty-Five: Page 148

2008-05-03T20:57:00.000-07:00

So it's the end of Day Twenty-Five, and we're sitting in a nice hotel, in a beautiful king-sized bed, between beautiful king-quality sheets. There is a little balcony to our room that opens out to the inner courtyard of the hotel where, even now at midnight, there are the happy splashes of handsome young people in an expansive pool. Things here are nice. How nice? Well, sure as hell not nice enough for the room to cost twice as much as our room last night, that's for sure. But we're paying for location and, insanely, our hotel is located right across the bridge from Manhattan.

I happened to flip open the front cover of our trusty road atlas today to that helpful map that tells you on which page to find the roads and cities of which state. For some reason, that's when it really hit me: we are a full country away from home right now. What the heck are we doing here?

I haven't really had cause to look at that front cover page guide, because we haven't been jumping from state to state, we've been crawling mile by mile to the end of pages and then on to the next page. Most days I track our little car onto three pages (or more, depending on our trajectory). And now, suddenly, we've arrived in Newark, New Jersey. We're in that famous metropolitan area that's not Los Angeles, and we earned our way here bit by bit. It's kinda incredible, and I'm torn between really really wanting to be back on a familiar page and really really wanting to keep going, to see what happens when we drive off the end of the last page in the book and don't look back.

Today we saw a couple hours' worth of Philadelphia, which we soon learned isn't the way it's meant to be seen. Everything in Independence Hall National Historical Park either required a ticket (which were sold out), a ridiculous fee, or a place in a line wrapping around the building. Maybe it would've worked for us under different circumstances, but as two weary travelers who had just spent three days cavorting around DC's abundant and free and very awesome museums, we weren't buying it. We snapped some pix through some windows, took in some of the free sights, and got back in our car with our eyes set on the New Jersey Turnpike. (We've all come to look for America...)
Tomorrow, we see my awesome big brother and enjoy frustratingly chilly New England from the comfort of his co-op for a few days. Then we start the long and detour-ridden trip homeward. Page 52, here we come!!

Today we listened to: On the Road, The Essential Simon and Garfunkel (with a double-play for "America"), The Grey Album (Jay-Z/The Beatles), and the theme from Rocky playing in our heads as we ran up the stairs to the Philadelphia Museum of Art. Fo reals.

Words to mystery by: "And one of us should hold her hand in case there's violence."

Mike! Read his thoughts on the trip & congratulate him on his 366th story in 366 days!!!: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Twenty-Four: Well-fed, well-rested, and a little tanner.

2008-05-02T21:48:00.000-07:00

Okay. Okay. Pheeeeeeeew. It's Day Twenty-Four, and I actually have enough energy to move my fingers across my keyboard. We're leaving DC tomorrow morning, and, after three full days here, I think I am finally prepared to give the thumbs up to our nation's capital.

Wednesday & Thursday mornings, we took the Metro train from our hotel in Rockville, MD into downtown DC. We learned, from a series of very intense and very brow-furrowing internet research sessions, that only raving lunatics actually stay in the city. Hotels are either super divey or super pricey, most all of them charge for parking, and traffic in and out within two hours of "rush hour" is crazy. So we opted instead to stay a little further away and ride the half hour each way.

When we arrived in our downtown station, we were quickly swept into the herd of people swarming up the comically tall escalators and onto the streets. With this herd we were pushed onto the street and were sometimes several monuments down before we even felt solid ground under our footsies. No matter how much we planned and how painstakingly we shaved "must do"s from our lists, there were always far too many things to do each day. So we rushed from place to place, our happy hipping and hopping becoming wailing limps of despair by the time the Smithsonians closed at 5:30.

Ah, but friends, it was worth it. I can say that now, after a day in sandals and a tank top, back in pajamas by 8 and happy to have seen the Atlanta Hawks take the Celtics to Game 7. I can say that because our last day in DC was the closest we could come to relaxing while still seeing something with the first name "National." (Surname "Zoo" if you're curious).

If you've been to Washington, you know how much awesome there is in every category. We got to see a Gutenberg Bible, a Shakespeare Folio, and the Supreme Court in the span of two hours. We were breathless at the Lincoln Memorial and solemn at Arlington, and then we were eyeing dinos at the Natural History Museum. So. Rather than try and enumerate all DC has to offer (which is much more than we were able to see anyway), here are some things that stick out (for better or worse), in no particular order.

* The Smithsonian. Yesh, I know. It's the first thing and already I'm cheating. The Smithsonian Institute is responsible for almost all of the non-governmental buildings in DC. That runs the gamut from the Natural History Museum (which, as previously mentioned, has dinos) to the National Zoo (which has naked mole rats) to the National Portrait Gallery (which just got one of Vonnegut's self-portraits). Mike and I are nerds, so the museums totally blew our socks off.

* Qdoba. If you've ever eaten at Chipotle, you may walk into this "Mexican" "restaurant" and think you might have found a good match. You will be wrong, and you will regret it. It is far better to go hungry.

* The Shakespeare Theater Company. We say Antony and Cleopatra last night, and it was amazing. A tip for travelers: most other patrons of this theater will be dressed in suits and dresses. If you arrive in Converse and road-dirty jeans, you may be looked at askance. But that's okay, because you don't need their approval anyway. They're eating veal paté from the snack cart in the lobby, so what do they know?

* Caterpillars. I don't know what their deal is, but they seem to think crossing the sidewalk is a safe and fun activity. They are wrong, and you can tell this because the pavement is littered with their failed experiments. If you don't want to be the enforcer of natural selection, for God's sake watch your step.

* Of course, I lied about the whole "no particular order" thing. By leaps and bounds the #1 most awesome thing about DC was Freakin Iron Man, which we saw today in Uptown in between being lost on the way to the National Cathedral and finding the giant pandas. To be fair, if you play the classic comic geek's game, Iron Man would definitely beat every other Washington DC attraction in a fight. Yeah, bear sloth. I'm talking to you. Ben Franklin statue outside the Old Post Office, you're next.

There's obviously a hundred more amazing things about DC, and I'd love to talk about them when we get home. But all of a sudden it's one o'clock in the morning and we've got to pack the car back up in the morning. Oh, that freeway's a-callin' our names!

Today we listened to: the sweet, sweet sounds kicking off the greatest summer movie geek-fest of all time: "Back in Black" by AC/DC.

Mystery words: "They look like chicken wings."

Mike's almost done. Show him some love: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Twenty-Three: snore

2008-05-01T22:59:00.000-07:00

It's quite late (Eastern Standard Time), and Day Twenty-Three has been over for 2 hours. I'm going to bed and will return to blarg about it soon. Apologies!

Day Twenty-Two: Always check the scale of a map before starting to walk

2008-04-30T21:40:00.000-07:00

It's Day Twenty-Two, and my everything hurts. We spent the day not taking advantage of public transportation and, instead, walking an estimated 15 miles around Washington, DC. My toes, stuffed back into shoes after two and a half weeks of freedom, are in pain from being squashed up to their neighbors. My legs are so heavy I fear that if I put step down off this bed they'll crash through the floor, plummeting me through to the center of the earth and beyond. My eyes burn with the pain of being open, my brain is over-stuffed: we saw and did far too many new things today.

I'm not going to blarg about it. Instead, I offer you two vignettes which hopefully give an incomplete picture of what our day was like, why we are exhausted, and why we completely lost control of our sanity at the end. There will be more tomorrow, and even more the day after that.

* Mike and I step off the tall, tall escalator and look around. Everything is made of stone. Everything is big, and everything is at least a little bit famous. Most things start with the word "National." These buildings stretch for miles in all directions, and all around us people in business gear rush, rush, rush to get to their crucially important destination. "There," says Mike. "That's something over there."

* Can you see the Washington Monument from space? I myself have never tried it, but I can't imagine being so far away from D.C. that the gigantic white obelisk is not looming somewhere in your view. If we knew what we were looking for, I'm sure we could see it from our own patio. Everywhere we walk in the city it is there, taller than we can believe. We finally give in to its gravity and climb up to put our hands on it, to look up and to be glad we have feet firmly on the ground. A woman in the crowd gasps "There it is!" She had, I suppose, not noticed it before.

Today we listened to: "Umbrella" by Rihanna blasting from the speakers of a supposedly world-famous ice cream shoppe. Simultaneously, the sound of our brains coming unhinged.

Mystery words: "Washington Monument, Lincoln Memorial, Jefferson Memorial, WWII Memorial, Vietnam War Memorial, Korean War Memorial, Arlington National Cemetery, National Museum of Natural History, National Archives, Smithsonian Castle..." and "She's a witch?"

Mike didn't blarg today, but read his 363rd daily story. The experiment is almost over!: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Twenty-One: Ghost stories

2008-04-29T20:19:00.000-07:00

If Day Twenty-One had ended up being particularly unlucky or ill-fated, I would have to say that we had plenty of warning. Uneasiness and questionable omens plagued us from the moment we woke up, an hour late. Down in the lobby, the continental breakfast was lacking in appetizing foods but overflowing with fruit juices that managed to (through some sort of witchery, no doubt) to be both watery and pulpy. Entering the lobby at the same time as us was a group of three loud and jovial Middle Eastern men speaking in Arabic. The icy silence which filled the area that, mere moments before, had been a clutter of hardy Southern laughter, made us shiver and shrink into a corner.

Then, when we walked outside, we realized that we'd left the beautiful, balmy weather of the deep South behind. It was cool and it was windy, and I would not have been surprised in the least if these all had been portents of a wretched day ahead. Instead, our day was mostly average, with the bright spots being, in fact, poorly lit and a bit creepy.

Watching the interchanges roll by on the map is a principal pleasure of mine. I chuckle at ridiculous town names, marvel at the "attractions" that somehow manage to rate little red boxes on the atlas pages, all the while calculating miles left till state borders when I'll attempt to take a picture of a state welcome sign. It is difficult to do all these things while also enjoying the real life geography streaming by the window and, of course, feeding the driver. Every once in a while things come together and I manage to notice an actually interesting attraction with enough advance notice that we're actually able to navigate to it.

There are times when this works out. There are times when it backfires horribly. Ask someone who came on our road trip to Nashville about the "Lincoln Log Cabin" and I'll bet they'll make you blush with their litany of profanities. Today was a lucky one. Though, again, lucky and creepy. We hopped off the freeway in Richmond, VA to find the Poe Museum.

The Edgar Allen Poe Museum is located in the oldest house in Richmond. This is not a house with which Poe has any particular connection other than that he knew of it. But the Poe Museum does the best they can with what they've got. The result is a little bit odd, a little off-putting, and utterly a-Poe-priate. They've taken bricks from houses Poe did live in and used them to pave the garden walks. In one wing, a staircase going nowhere is a transplant from his foster parents' home. Assorted furniture from his childhood stands in a corner, and one display case is dedicated to the contents of his pockets on the day he died. The face of this museum is a plump middle-aged woman who brags that, although other Poe museums have more of a connection to the famous American author, theirs has "the most stuff." This "stuff" includes a clipping of some Poe-corpse-hair pasted to a letter by a friend of his. Worth the $5 student ticket in, but ye gods it was weird. We weren't allowed to take pictures inside the buildings, so imagine these bright and sunny pictures darker and drearier and insider.

After navigating the trafficky freeways around our nation's capitol, we checked in to a motel in Rockville, MD. Just so happens to be the final resting place of F. Scott Fitzgerald. So, after dinner, we drove over to St. Mary's Church, parked in a corner of the lot, and scuttled over to the graveyard. Under the cover of a towering tree and the deep Maryland night, we hopped over the fence and, using Mike's cell phone for a flashlight, combed through the graves until we found the Fitzgerald family plot. We think Scott and Zelda would have approved.

So that's it. That's what the signs this morning were pointing to. Two vaguely creepy encounters with two heroes of American literature. Also, a big fat spider in the corner of the ceiling of our room.

Heard: "Wagon Wheel," "Fall on My Knees," and other Old Crow Medicine Show songs, Blues on the Bayou (B.B. King), On the Road, and the meaningful silence of an old graveyard after dark.

Mystery words: "Cigar girl"

Mike! Mike Mike Mike! Mike Mike Mike! Mike Mike Miiiiiiiike: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Twenty: Maybe Jeffy G could give me a lesson?

2008-04-28T20:40:00.000-07:00

After yesterday's incomplete appreciation of two great and vastly different cities, Day Twenty saw us doing things a bit differently. We left Savannah this morning and got on scenic Highway 17, having decided to take in the Atlantic Coast by getting off the interstate for the first time in quite a while. Besides taking the long and winding road, we also decided that, for the first time since the California Redwoods, we were going to give ourselves the option of stopping along the way. What would've been a short 6 hour drive ended up with us pulling into our hotel parking lot ten hours after we left. But we made absolutely the right decision.

Ever since we first decided to head south from St. Louis to Savannah (lo, these four days ago) I've been counting down to our first glimpse of the Atlantic Ocean. Not that we hadn't already proven ourselves on this trip. We hit five thousand miles of driving yesterday. We've crossed the Mississippi River probably a dozen times. We've driven through snow, gorgeous and alien rock formations, and the Illinois city of Metropolis. It's not like we weren't already far from home. But I knew that when I saw the ocean disappearing into the horizon in the east, and felt the water that touches England touch my feet, that it would be something different. We would have gone as far away from home as we could. That's it. End of the continent. One whole direction knocked off the compass.

I was right. It was awesome. And my toes enjoyed it immensely.

After walking along the surf for a while, we got back in the car and headed to Myrtle Beach, SC, which was wonderful and strange. Besides being a vacation spot for old white people of all ages and colors, it's also the miniature golf capitol of the world. Seriously. We passed a dozen highly intricate and humongous courses before we decided that we obviously had to stop. We almost played at some random pirate themed one, but I suggested we drive a little further before deciding. Which is lucky, because on the next block was Jurassic Golf. With animatronic dinos! Aaa!!!!

Truly the best thing ever (though I did lose by two strokes, tying our relationship-spanning series at 1-1). On the way out of town we passed some more extravagantly designed courses, and some that were inside a volcano. But none of the other "adventure golf" courses had a real live T-Rex that roared or a Dilophosaurus that actually spat. So we clearly picked the right place.

Now we're about to go to bed in Wilmington, NC. Our bellies are full of delicious, delicious Ruby Tuesday steaks. Our energy is high because we just watched our Atlanta Hawks beat the Celtics again. And tomorrow we head to Washington, DC. Things are good, my friends. Things are good.

Today we listened to: Big Iron World (Old Crow Medicine Show), On the Road, and the unmistakable sounds of an animatronic Velociraptor about to strike. Clever girl...

Mystery words: "NHOP"

Mike's thoughts on today's route (root?!?): astoriedyear.blogspot.com & (posted soonly) LBPostSports.com

Day Nineteen: In which we conclude that Georgia is great

2008-04-27T20:39:00.000-07:00

I'm wracking my brain right now trying to figure out what to write about Day Nineteen. Some one-liner, an over-arching theme, or one big moment that really explained the day. All I can come up with is this: America is pretty freakin incredible. We had an amazing day, spent quality time in two awesome cities, took more pictures than we have since our 150 road pics Seattle to Billings extravaganza, and we never even left the state of Georgia. Friends, there is so much to see, and even on our epic road trip there's no way we're even scratching the surface. I am utterly humbled by the wealth of beauty, history, and just plain coolness in this county. This is what the road trip was all about, buddies!

Before we left Atlanta this morning, we knew we wanted to check out the Martin Luther King, Jr. National Historical Site. We parked our car, arranged our various bags, trash, and other hinderances, and finally climbed out. We turned around, and immediately were struck with awe. In front of the visitor's center is a bronze statue of Mohandas Gandhi and, leading toward us from the feet of the statue, is the Civil Rights Walk of Fame. Peppering the walkway are markers with quotes from some of Dr. King's speeches. Before we even get to the building, we are already overwhelmed.The Historical Site, since it's got "National" in front of it, is under the maintenance of our federal government and its parks system. This is obvious by the park ranger sitting at the front desk, the fact that it's entirely free to park and visit the visitor's center, and the obvious thought (and money) that has been put into the site. The 40th anniversary of Dr. King's assassination (the site of which Mike and I visited on a previous trip) was earlier this month, and the visitor's center currently has an exhibition about the days leading up to him death and the weeks after. It was incredibly moving and, when accompanied by the videos and audio recordings of the speeches that brought a nation to its feet, it was incredibly inspiring as well. We walked around the exhibit, then visited other sites in the area: the Hall of Freedom, the tomb of Dr. and Mrs. King, and Ebenezer Church, where Dr. King was co-pastor. Mike said it best: it should be a requirement for citizens of this country to visit this place. Absolutely amazing.

From Atlanta, we cut through Georgia to Savannah, which we'd heard from our incredibly tall friend was pretty cool. This proved to be an understatement. Savannah is located on the Atlantic Coast at approximately the same place as Long Beach is on the Pacific Coast. Psychologically, it doesn't get much farther away than this. But Savannah was so beautiful, its weather so perfect, and its culture so intelligent, creative, and exciting, that I found myself half-wishing it were home. The famous "Savannah Squares"-- mini-parks which interrupt the flow of downtown streets with delightful frequency-- were gorgeously shaded by trees dripping with Spanish moss.
The Forsythe Park had a wide expanse of grass whereupon happy young people were playing Ultimate Frisbee, tossing softballs, or simply tanning & reading in the beautiful sunshine. And everywhere throughout the downtown area were Savannah College of Art and Design buildings. The SCAD students inspired dozens of art galleries and supply stores, as well as contributing their own works to the beauty of the city.This place is incredible, and the best part is that everyone here seems to know it. Mike and I certainly do.

Today we listened to: On the Road, "Georgia On My Mind" first by Willie Nelson, then by Ray Charles hours later, O Brother Where Art Thou (Soundtrack)

Mystery words: "Mike saves a turtle"

Mike is my friend, your buddy, and quite a guy: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Eighteen: Now to get some great responsibility...

2008-04-26T21:59:00.000-07:00

"Prepare for the Memphis to Atlanta day to be the biggest sports day of your life. Are you prepared for it?"

These words from Mike on our last night in St. Louis, as we were sitting on the floor of our room planning the next leg of our trip. Now it's the very end of Day Eighteen and I have to say, past Mike, that I was not at all prepared. Not at all! And I reckon that the NBA was not quite prepared for the Amazing Awesome Game-Changing Power that I wield.

Everything appeared normal when we left Memphis this morning. We indulged in in a delicious breakfast buffet and meandered onto the freeway just about a quarter to ten. A little late, but still relatively normal.

Our gas stop today was in Tremont, Mississippi. It was clear that these folk did not want us around. Not when we had California plates, a foreign car, an Obama sticker in the window, and sandals on our feet. So intensely did they not want us around that they did not advertise their gas station on their exit sign. Lucky us that we found it anyway! Here is a handy travel tip: sometimes it's better to run on fumes. Scary, unsettling, but I'd guess it's pretty normal for small town Mississippi.

Then we arrived in Atlanta, and that's when things began to get crazy. A lightning storm rolled in with us, so we probably should have known that there was magic in the air (also electricity. Both of these, incidentally, were harnessed by Ben Franklin. U.S. History, buddy. Learn it!). We checked into our sweet hotel, then took the MARTA rail to the Philips Center, where I was fated to use my Amazing Awesome Game-Changing Power to help my second NBA team in a row to a mind-boggling upset.

"But Shar!" you all hiss in horrifying unison, "No way you used magic to win the game. That's just impossible!" Funny you should mention it, because that's #1 of the extensive list of obvious clues to my Power.

1. A Pasta Bowl. The Atlanta Hawks' arena had an extensive and fantastic food court full of choices. We dined on pasta bowls, which, besides being good for carb-ing up before a big race, are also notorious magic-enhancers. Nothing's im-pasta-bowl when you're on Mike&SharTours!

2. Atlantape. Before the game-- yes, bandwagon fans, that is Before The Game Even Started-- we hit the team store to gear up to cheer for our temporary hometown's team. I bought a rally monkey I've named Atlantape. You might think this is a pun, being the sum of Atlanta + Ape. You'd be wrong. Stupidly, embarrassingly wrong. In fact, his name is the sum of Atlanta + Tape. As in, Scotch tape. As in, Scotch Magic tape, what which holds things together invisibly. No one could have predicted the outcome of tonight's game. No one, that is, 'cept for me and my monkey.

3. Terrible Towel. I have long been an admirer of the Terrible Towel, which I've seen in action in many televised sporting events. Never before have I myself gotten to whip one about my head with joy and vigor, showering myself and those around me with a snow of towel fibers. Ever heard the expression "Third time's the charm"? Well, it's actually a mistranslation of the original Aramaic. The actual adage is: "First time's the magic."
4. The Hawks. As a quick Wikipedia search would reveal, I am a distinguished alum of Stanford Middle School in Long Beach, CA. Our mascot was the Red Hawks. I don't think I need to explain why this proves I'm magic.

5. I am a notorious and bawdy hater of all things Irish. Just kidding. No I'm not. (Observe the lexical ambiguity. Intentional, I assure you).

6. Me. Let's not forget that, in my first ever NBA basketball game, I led the Seattle SuuuuuperSonics to a wild double-OT victory over the heavily favored Denver Nuggets. Now, for my second game, my 8th-seeded Atlanta Hawks beat the first seed Celtics with the ease and lethality of the similarly-named bird of prey. The common factor? It doesn't take a Mr. Monk to know that I'm the culprit. And it doesn't take a Larry Bird to know that it's cuz I'm magic.

So, yeah. I'm pretty stoked. I've never been part of such an energetic crowd before. Chants of "Let's Go Hawks!" carried us from our seats, down the escalators, into the streets, onto our train, and all the way back to the hotel. My throat got trashed during the game, but you better believe I was chanting too.

Today we listened to: a Neil Young mix, Ben Folds Five (Ben Folds Five), "Wagon Wheel" by Old Crow Medicine Show, and a stadium full of people singing "Living on a Prayer" at the top of their lungs.

Mystery words: "It could have killed him five times before we could even get out of the elevator."

Mike tells it like it is: astoriedyear.blogspot.com & LBPostSports.com

Day Seventeen: More than some pretty face beside a train

2008-04-25T22:08:00.000-07:00

St. Louis was awesome. Holly's house was beautiful and comfortable and the view from the front steps (of little flowers blooming in the lush spring grasses, of squirrels leaping on fences and trees, of all of this happening in the perfectly warming rays of a spring sun) was bordering on idyllic. But there comes a time in a road trip when, well, one has to just get one's ass on the road. This morning, the morning of Day Seventeen, was when the alarm rang for Mike&SharTours. And, having stayed up way too late last night figuring out where we were going today, by the time we were out the door, standing on those steps and looking out at that perfect spring day, we were ready to get a move on. Ready to get back to our mission! Ready for adventure! Ready to start watching the miles tick up and the gas tank tick down as the landscapes of America fly by us at 70 miles per hour! Ready, oh yes, we were ready!

Which is why it was more than a little frustrating when the car wouldn't start.

I think the Blue Hornet took a cue from Holly's cats and decided to punish us for leaving her alone for a week and a half. We apologized profusely, her battery got a jump start (God bless you, AAA man!), and she let us back into her good graces. Which was good because we're gonna need her quite a bit over the next few weeks.

Let me illustrate our day for you by first telling you that we drove in a total of five states today, and that our total driving time was about seven hours. Now let me tell you the order in which these states rolled their asphalts under our tires: Missouri. Illinois. Kentucky. Missouri. Arkansas. Tennessee. Sound a little roundabout? That's because it was. We took a massive detour (almost thwarted by a Google Maps fatal flaw which, of course, we could have fixed for them if they'd let us on campus) in order to see something truly fantastic. Or should I say..... KRYPTONIAN?!?

Friends, if you are looking for an awesome getaway spot, may I suggest Metropolis, Illinois? I think I can safely say that there is nothing on Earth like it (except Supergirl, Krypto, and Lor-Zod aka Christopher Kent. One could, I guess, argue that Power Girl might count. This is not, of course, including persons currently imprisoned in the Phantom Zone, living in the miniature city of Kandor or... *sigh* never mind). You may recognize Metropolis from this awesome picture, followed closely by today's recreation of the same.

After many wrong turns and meanderings down back highways, we are now in Memphis, TN. Memphis is awesome, and it's shortlisted for the "Places we want to spend some time in one day" list. We're in a delightful room 18 floors up in the Hilton tower, which was much more delightful before it started thunderstorming outside our very high and very large window. Oh, severe weather alerts: did you miss us as much as we missed you?

We kinda sorta know where we're heading tomorrow. But shhhh! Don't tell the storm!

Today we listened to: a city's worth of Superman theme music and soundtracks, Graceland (Paul Simon), Journey's Greatest Hits, and ourselves singing "Don't Stop Believing" at the top of our lungs as Kentucky rolled prettily by.
Me: Didn't we just hear this song?
Mike: Oh, I put it on this playlist, like, five times.
Me: Awesome.

Mystery words: A camel, but no rhinoceros.

Mike writes purdy: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Sixteen: I miss you already

2008-04-24T20:49:00.000-07:00

As the days and weeks remaining in this road trip creep toward us and fly by, I imagine we'll look back on Day Sixteen with much fondness. We woke up this morning with a kitty on our bed and a gentle breeze bringing the smell of spring rain into our third-story window. I felt so rested that I assumed I must've slept far past noon, and that our plans on exploring Holly's neighborhood had been thwarted. But it was only half-past ten. The bed was just that comfy. And, since it was really only 8:30 back at home, I figured we could justify sleeping just a bit longer.

Fast forward to one o'clock, when we finally quit snoozing and rolled out of bed. Bacon, eggs, and Frosted Flakes for breakfast, then more lazying about until finally, at around three, we made it out the front door. For the record, it was the front door of this house:

We have heard much negative talk (aka jibber-jabber) about St. Louis during the planning stages of this trip. Clearly these people who were surprised to see this stop on our Tour d'America Prospectus have never walked the streets of the university district in late April. Clearly they've never seen the street trees blossoming and the lawns achingly green, with happy sidewalk puddles to hop over. We wandered the neighborhood a bit until we found The Loop, a lovely hodge-podge of independent shops and college kids. We got our weekly comics at Star Clipper, possibly the coolest comic shop ever. Then, after a stop at a very odd Ben & Jerry's, we walked back home, where Holly was home from work and ready to take us to a delicious dinner, an independent new/used bookstore, and Ted Drewes (famous) Frozen Custard.

All of this, and then there was a new Office on tonight. Ah yes. This is a day that will shine brightly in our memories. I imagine that we'll begin to be nostalgic pretty soon, too, because it's 11 pm here and we still don't know where which direction we're driving tomorrow morning. I imagine that, when cat allergies and exhaustion finally claim me late, late tonight, I'll be wishing there were some frozen custard waiting for me tomorrow evening.

Today we listened to: Very loud hip-hop music at the very odd Ben & Jerry's

Mystery words: "Maybe he's trying to get us to laugh"

Mike talks about it: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Fifteen: Don't call me Shirley.

2008-04-23T22:22:00.000-07:00

And we're off! We're calling it Day Fifteen, for lack of a better name. But really it's kind of Day One, Part Two. Or Part Two, Day One. Or The Day of Four Airports, Three Packages of Biscott Cookies, Two Exhausted Travelers, and One Lovely Aunt in St. Louis.

Or something.

The point is, we're back! Back in St. Louis, back with our car, and back on the road again. We woke up this morning having (again) neglected our packing until after midnight and (again) set out on way too little sleep. We dropped my hardy little Accord off with Mike's mom and piled in for a ride to the Long Beach Airport. If you haven't been through LGB, I highly recommend it. It's quick and convenient and you can point out familiar houses as you roar overhead. We were tired, but it wasn't a bad way to re-start our trip.

But we were almost immediately reminded of the downside of air travel, no matter how pleasant the airport. On the precious incarnation of Mike&SharTours 2008, as you may recall, the major players were these: Mike. Also Shar. Now, on Mike&SharTours 2008 Part Two (Mike&Shar: Airborne!!) we've got Mike. Also Shar. Also smelly woman whose hair sticks through the seat crack in front of us and who continues to waft her tendrils at us no matter how obvious we are at our attempts to repel them. And overly aggressive airport police man (who actually is in charge of telling a line of five cars where on the curb to pull up). Not to mention three airplanes full of people who are, though probably very nice, decidedly not Mike. Or Shar.

But we're here now! Mike's great (as in fantastic, not large or old) aunt Holly is lending us the upper guest room in her gorgeous St. Louis home and has filled her refrigerator and cabinet with all sorts of tasties for us to enjoy. Pictures of the house, the Holly, and hopefully her awesome kitties as well will come shortly. One of those kitties is looking at me right now. Hello, Ricky.

Tomorrow we're hanging around the city and the house, getting our energy up before we head off for parts unknown. And let me add that spring has apparently sprung in these parts since we were here last: the temperatures are gloriously balmy and my feet might not see shoes for days. Huzzah!

Today we listened to: the sonic boom of our ears popping through three take-offs and three landings.

Mystery words: "One wrong thing with Cincinnati"

Read Mike! He's great (as in fantastic, large, and old): astoriedyear.blogspot.com

America, here we come! (Again)

2008-04-23T00:51:00.000-07:00

Two nights ago, we had a house-guest avoiding a paper on our couch. No matter how much coffee and cake I fed her, she still had trouble staying awake through the horrifyingly boring article she had to read for her Engineering and Ethics class. Mike and I were also full of coffee (me) and cake (him), so we stayed up for a bit, to encourage her.

"I know!" I said. "I'll write something!"

I should point out now that the above quote is the last thing I wrote that night. I just went back, added the opening "two nights ago" and changed (hopefully) all of the verb tenses.

It was so easy to write when we were on the road. Part of that was because every time we turned around there was something new and unexpected: a man with no pants. A mirrored jelly bean. Snow. But I think the main reason is simply a matter of routine. On the road, we'd pull in to a hotel parking lot, drag our bags upstairs, and immediately start writing. We'd look through pictures and post our blargs, sometimes basking in an overabundance of wireless internet and sometimes swapping a cord or sharing a lappy. In any case, getting the blarg written was an essential part of the trip.

At home, there are so many other things to do! Literally a wall of DVDs to watch, hundreds of books to read, and gorgeous SoCal weather to bask in. And, more importantly, two comfy couches with siren calls that put you to sleep faster than a Jigglypuff. Our time at home has been busy, of course, with more stuff even than we anticipated. But it's also been filled with a lot of unfinished blargs, unscheduled naps, and cake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. Not that I'm complaining. Cake is tasty! And appropriate for any (and every) meal!

Well, tomorrow we're catching a plane (three actually) for St. Louis, where we'll be reunited with The Blue Hornet. From there? Well, we haven't really decided yet. We're currently parked about six hours south of our original route, and we've got about three weeks in which to forge a new one.

You can bet I'll be writing about it: tomorrow, SharBlarg goes back to being a daily. I'm off to pack... see you in St. Louis!

And don't forget to check out Mike's blog. He's a mere 10 stories away from being done with his grand experiment!

At home

2008-04-16T22:03:00.000-07:00

My sandals are sitting next to the heater which is, if I remember to put them away, where they always are. My bag is hanging by its strap on the back of a dining room chair. There is Tejava in the fridge, as usual, and the Wii has recently been played. It is a beautiful Long Beach day, though a bit overcast, and traffic is making its typical roar on the busy street outside our apartment. Everything is exactly as it should be.

Is this what home feels like?

On Sunday night I ran across the parking lot to Chipotle, not afraid of getting lost in an unfamiliar crowd. Yesterday I did laundry for $1.50 in the little room behind our apartment, not with an iron and hand soap in a hotel sink. I drove my car today for the first time in two and a half weeks, and I don't think I need to mention that I wasn't wearing shoes when I did it. No hobo gloves neither. This is home.

For the past eight months, I haven't spent a night away from my hubby. We've put four thousand miles of road trip on his car together and listened to "Wagon Wheel" in eleven states. In the freezing winds of Chicago, he gave me his sweatshirt because my ears were aching. On our honeymoon in Hawaii, we sat on the bed and read comic books for hours instead of walking on the beach at sunset. Today, in Long Beach, I made him a bowl of ice cream for breakfast (with frozen gummi bears).

Ain't I a lucky snail, taking my home with me wherever I go?

Day Thirteen & Day Fourteen: An odd detour

2008-04-14T23:08:00.000-07:00

The morning of Day Thirteen felt a lot better than the evening of Day Twelve. By now you've read on Mike's blog about the end of our Chicago night. In case you haven't, I'll give you the quick story. We hiked back to our car in the Millennium Park garage after an cold, windy, and ultimately odd day in Chicago. We hoped to get another chance at it someday. We got into our car and Mike saw he'd missed a call from his mom. When we left the parking garage I checked the message. Mike's grandma had passed away that afternoon and we were 2,000 miles from home. Not knowing what else to do, we got on the freeway and continued driving east, stopping finally in the town of Portage, Indiana, where the Comfort Inn had a chandelier and, more importantly, an available king bed. So we dragged ourselves up the stairs and, feeling every mile and every hour of driving we had between us and family, tried to figure out what was next.

Our original thought, of course, was to catch a few hours of sleep and get in the car, driving west and south until we were home. It was just too much. We'd been on the road for almost two weeks and there was no way we could keep driving as if nothing had happened. So that was it. We were going home. We went to sleep exhausted on every level, more drained than a 12 hour drive could have made us.

But, like I said, a full night's sleep and the morning sun of Day Thirteen made all the difference. We choked down some continental breakfast and got in the car, heading south: south to St. Louis. Mike's amazing aunt was going to put us up for the night and watch our car for a week, and Mike's amazing mom was flying us home. I'm not one for cheesy imagery, but as we drove the landscape began to change and suddenly we were surrounded by a brilliant, verdant green. The winter had broken here, and the rain and snow had blessed the land with spring.

It was beyond great to see Mike's aunt, whose Nashville residence had been the endpoint of our first road trip together. Now she lives in St. Louis, and she provided us with a delicious dinner, a comfortable bed, a heartening breakfast, a trip to the airport, and our first familiar face since we'd left San Francisco. And she was a safe haven for us to transition back to the world we'd left behind.

Day Fourteen was filled with travel, and a last-minute flight reservation (on something other than American) meant three lay-overs before we got to the Long Beach airport. It wasn't a very interesting time, except for a few amusing eavesdrops and some good reading. Mike's mom picked us up and took us home, where we were shocked by the carpet of our apartment, the feel of our couches, and the sight of our very own fishies. I slipped on a tank top and we walked to Chipotle, reveling in the warmth of the Long Beach night. I kept breaking into sprints, unable to contain the energy: we were walking confidently to a place we'd been before. I was wearing sandals, I was bare-shouldered, and we would be getting ice cream on the way back. It was so ordinary, and so absolutely insane.

We tried to watch TV but we both fell asleep on the couches, the two-hour time shock, the 10 hours of traveling, and the confusion of being home for a week halfway through a five week road trip catching up to us. We stumbled to our very own bed and fell asleep immediately. Tomorrow, we'd have to buy milk. Tonight, we just had to sleep.

Listened to: The Cool (Lupe Fiasco), On the Road, and the sweet sounds of National Treasure 2 in-flight from Cinci to Salt Lake.

Mystery words: "Awkward Diaper Change"

Mike tells all: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Twelve (again): Sorry but I can't take you.

2008-04-12T22:57:00.000-07:00

We stared long and hard at weather map on the morning of Day Twelve, but there just wasn't any way we could do it. We'd already been driven out of St. Paul by a random snowstorm and now the best meteorologists the Internets could buy were saying the snow was just the edge of a Severe Weather system which was moving North and East. Much as we were hoping to do. And there was just no way our hardy SoCal car and her duo of SoCal travelers were going to be able to make it to Lambeau Field. And because we weren't there, I'm sure that Brett Favre came to play one last game in the snow of the parking lot with any fans that happened to have braved the weather. Had we been there, we would have let him borrow our Joe Montana ball and it would have been, quite simply, the best thing ever. But, instead, Brett Favre had to go home disappointed and we had this day:

Almost as soon as we got on the freeway heading toward Chicago we began to notice signs of hope. The road was wet with melted snow and ice and, just as we crossed into Illinois, the sun broke out of the clouds. We were jubilant. Since we'd left Seattle we'd been driving with more than a little trepidation. There were many trials and tribulations that we'd prepared ourselves for before leaving our sweet home in Long Beach. Snow driving was not one of the ones we'd thought about strongly. It's April, after all. But we'd been seeing frozen lakes, icy fields, and avalanche embankments where we thought we'd be seeing spring's first glory. And let's not forget that, California girl that I am, my idea of "cold weather gear" was a windbreaker and Converse. So when we saw the sun finally start to impact the scenery, when it started streaming through the windows and thawing us out, we were jubilant. "It's definitely unfair to the rest of the states," I said, "Because clearly Illinois is the best."
Four tollbooths later, I was a little less enthusiastic. But still, creeping closer across the page of our 2004 Michelin US Road Atlas was Chicago. Legendary Chicago, a real destination wherein could only wait magic. When we got off the freeway into the city, we were stoked. Our first stop was the Michael Jordan statue at the United Center, where Mike continued his tour of bronze versions of his heroes (I'm looking forward to the next stop on my operatic tour of web comics). Then we navigated the streets to the Threadless retail store, which was entirely as awesome as I thought it would be. I picked up a new design that you all won't get to see till Monday (boo-yah, officially!) and we decided to head downtown and see some museums, explore the lakefront park, and get some of that famous Chicago pizza.

Here are some travel ideas for tourists interested in making their first trip to Chicago more than just almost awesome.

First: Chicago is not the type of city for which the phrase "we decided to head downtown" should ever be followed closely by the word "and." This is because it is literally impossible to navigate the traffic-laden streets of downtown Chicago even if it weren't rush hour on a Friday and even if you did have a clear idea of where you were going. And when I say literally, I mean it.

Second: Chicago museums close at 5. And that means they stop letting people in at 4. Yes, this includes the Field Museum, one of the most famous natural history museums in the world. And yes, this is probably some sort of Cinderella arrangement with Tyrannosaurus Sue who obviously comes to life after nightfall.

Third: There is a reason Chicago is called "The City Beset By Icy Winds of Death." No matter how pleasant the evening might seem when you arrive in the city, beware the gusts which blow through the city like immortal banshee revelers, stealing the joy out of every heart and the breath out of every lung.

Fourth: The famous deep dish Chicago pizza, while a little strange, is pretty good when flavored with the horrifying oddness of the family who will sit next to you at the restaurant. Trust me on this. It is much, much more important that you eavesdrop on their conversation than it is for you to work through your first slice of pie. Here is a quote: "The only Snow White and the Seven Dwarves I know is a porn I saw." This from the lady who brought the ten-year-old to the famous pizza joint and who was promptly shushed by the gay couple that was taking him to the ballet.

We felt like we missed out on something great. Much like the infamous parking lot game with Brett Favre, we were just in the wrong place at the wrong time. We're gonna try and see it again, this time with more careful planning and some heavier jacketing. In the meantime, we got out of town as soon as traffic let us and blasted Chi-town rap as we did.

Listened to: "Goin' to Chicago Blues" by Lambert, Hendricks, and Ross, Illinoise (Sufjan Stevens), Be (Common), The Cool (Lupe Fiasco) and the distinctive and dusty sound of museum doors being shut in our faces.

Mystery words: "Oh, he definitely had his pants stolen."

Mike will soon explain: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Twelve.

2008-04-11T22:57:00.000-07:00

Hey folks... something's come up. Hate to leave you hanging (especially after the professions of love SharBlarg received yesterday), but that's all I've got from you right now. We'll talk later.

I'm not sure the name of the town we're in right now, but it's east of Gary, IN and it has a Comfort Inn.

Much love and thanks.
sh!

Day Eleven: A long way from home

2008-04-10T21:50:00.000-07:00

Today was Day Eleven, and we woke up feeling something we hadn't felt since we left Southern California. We were too hot. The heater in our Ramada room that had been so welcome when we trekked in from curling last night now choked the air and the window to the indoor pool was adding humidity to the whole mess. I took a shower, woke up Mike and began to pack as the weariness of two overly long days of driving began to creep through my body. And I was exhausted already thinking about another day on the road. Another day leading away from warmth, away from home, and into god knows what.

An odd thing about this road trip is how quickly we become attached to places. We wake up just about every morning fighting the desire to just unpack our suitcases and stay. It doesn't matter if we're in someplace amazing or someplace utterly not. The desire to sleep two nights in the same place is almost overwhelming. Then we get in the car and back on the interstate and we start watching the miles tick away and then the bug's in us again and we're slapping the dashboard, yelling at bad drivers, counting the exits as they get higher and higher then drop back down to Exit 1 when we cross a state line. And suddenly we can't wait to go to sleep somewhere entirely new, washing the dirt of five hundred cities off with a heavy Midwestern storm. And we can't wait to see what our home is going to look like tonight.

And yes, we loved San Francisco. And we loved Portland and Seattle, and I can almost taste the clear scent of the redwoods every time I see one of these leafless trees with roots still buried in ice. Someday we'll be home, and then we'll love Long Beach most of all. And right now we're loving Eau Claire, Wisconsin because there's a king bed here and we're in it. But tomorrow we'll wake up and there's going to be a lot more road to explore. And we'll leave Eau Claire, seat of the county and home of the Domino's pizza man who brought us the first hot food we'd had all day. We'll leave her early in the morning, snow and ice covering her silent streets and we'll start counting down to the Illinois border. To that sweet Exit 1 and to whatever comes next.

Another day. Another day. Another day. This one was filled with statues of literary heroes (of F. Scott Fitzgerald and of the whole Peanuts gang) and thousands of frozen lakes. We weren't long in St. Paul today before the rain and the snow drove us eastward, but boy we loved it too.

And today, on Day Eleven, we met a homeless vet in St. Paul who gave us directions and took all the coins we had to give. And he graduated from Long Beach Jordan High School, just a few miles from where Mike and I met. And he was standing at a five-way intersection in Minnesota, beard down to his chest and cardboard sign soaked with rain, hoping someone would be brave enough to catch his eye. He is a long way from home today.

Listened to: "Wagon Wheel" by OCMS, On the Road, Colin Meloy Sings Live (Colin Meloy), and the pat of snow on our windshield and the squeak of the wipers rushing to respond.

Mystery words: "We do cows"

Read Mike's words using your eyes and your brain (and your typing fingers?): astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Ten: Good Luck and Good Curling!

2008-04-09T21:47:00.000-07:00

The only thing longer than our Day Ten drive was our Day Nine drive. Yesterday, our Seattle to Billings drive absolutely exhausted us. Today we woke up, got dressed, scraped the ice of our car, and prepared to do another 700 miles of driving. The difference here was that we had to be in Grand Forks, ND with enough time to get to our Extra Special Event by 7:00. Taking into account that we've lost two hours in the past two days... this was another long day. Another test of wills, of stomachs, and of patience. Luckily, North Dakota is famous for having a lot to look at.

It's almost midnight here in Grand Forks as I write this. But ever here, even now, I can hear you all crying out in one voice, asking: "But Shar-and-Mike! More than nine hours in the car for the second day in a row? However do you do it??" Before I answer you, let me just assure you that, though I am a jaded traveler now, speaking in unison still creeps me right the hell out. So stop that. Now. It's a valid question, however. So let me share with you some of the fun games Mike and I play while we zip along the interstate. Just wait! One of these tips may save your marriage one day!

1) Watch the road signs. It may shock you to your core to learn that the Montana and North Dakota stretches of our trip have been dotted with some of the most entertaining, offensive, and just plain weird signs ever in the history of signage. Yesterday, one of my favorites was a billboard advertising "The Center of the Universe!" which is evidently found in Wallace, Idaho. Today, while driving through a city looking for food, we came across an intersection for which signs in both directions read "E Boulevard Av." And, of course, this one:

2) Feed the driver. I'm not sure whether it's because Mike's left-handed or because I'm easily duped, but part of my responsibilities as passenger includes handing Mike various snacks and, in cases where precision is required, actually putting the food in his mouth. Turns out precision is required for McNuggets dipped in ketchup. When the real complicated stuff starts, I imagine I'll be perching over him regurgitating it into his chirping maw. The alternative, of course, is continuing to add fertilizer to the already fecund car, ripe for the mystical workings of spontaneous generation.

3) Talk about things that happened earlier in the trip. Hey, remember when we were in Salinas? We don't. This is not actually a fun game at all. Mike said, at one point, that if, in an hour, we were still arguing about which random stranger it was who had told us that "The Land of 10,000 Lakes" actually had more like 20,000, he was going to deem us unfit for travel and flip a U-ie for home.

4) Attempt to, using standard English, communicate a sentence or idea. Did I mention that we're exhausted? Today, while we munched on McFries, Mike asked me for a "packup ketchet" much to our mutual horror. But that certainly didn't top my excitement when I saw a bunch of animals (not cows) that were not immediately recognizable: "Oh! Look at they! What ims they? Ims they...they ships! They ships!"

5) Have something to which to look forward to. Yesterday, it was just a bed and a shower (and a water slide!). Today, it was the 2008 Men's World Curling Championship. Specifically, it was the 14th draw of the 50th annual world championship, held in the Ralph Engelstad Arena in Grand Forks, North Dakota. Yep, that's why we're here. I went into the arena without much experience with curling, except for the wikipedia descriptions which seemed really to be propaganda for the "Curling is the Most Ridiculous Sport Ever" lobby. There are mandated "good curling!" shouts and handshakes, for the love of football! I have to admit, though, that I am a convert. Once I figured out what was going on, it became a really fascinating display of talent and intelligence in a way completely different from, say, a normal sport. The normal handholds for girls at sporting events were noticeably lacking (these being, of course, hot athletes and dramatic sounds), but I still had a really shockingly good time. Plus, the Scottish team was pretty cute.

Tomorrow we head for the land of 20,000 lakes. It'll be a much shorter drive and there will be Peanuts statues at the end of it. Plus, we might run into Neil Gaiman!

Listened to: King James Version (Harvey Danger), Surfer Rosa (Pixies), The Cool (Lupe Fiasco), On the Road, and Scottish fans getting all the way through "Gimme an S! Gimme a C! Gimme an O!" without realizing how objectively ridiculous they were being.

Words De La Mystery: "Caravan"

Read Mike's blog (astoriedyear.blogspot.com) and his article about curling (soon to be up at LBPostSports.com)

Day Nine: Where Shar takes 150 pictures of the road going by

2008-04-08T22:01:00.000-07:00

On Day Nine, we woke up at five, climbed into the car before the UW ticket-happy parking enforcers could get another swipe at us, and got on the road, setting our sights on Bozeman, MT. That is, we set our sights on driving from Seattle to Bozeman. In one day.

Yes, we know that's a really long drive. Don't you think we know that? What we did not in fact know until right before we went to bed last night was how nerve-wracking that long drive was going to be. Evidently, there are parts of the country that didn't get the notice that Spring Has Sprung. These parts of the country believe that it is, in fact, time to pose for their Christmas postcards. They believed that, in April, which is, in fact, objectively springtime, it was time to snow. Unfortunately several of these parts of the country lie in the 800 miles we meant to cover. There were, of course, fantastically breathtaking views, not all of which were snow-covered. Here are some of the ones that were. Also, a picture of an error in judgment on my part, specifically regarding my toes.

Here again is a thing that will make this trip an obvious Mike & Shar experience. Besides the census taken of the inside of the car. We did not make it to the KOA kabin we'd reserved in Bozeman. Instead, we decided that 11 hours of driving, stopping only (twice) for gas was not enough. We added another 90 minutes to the end of that drive and are currently blarging from Billings, tummies full of good Montana steak. Also, there's a water slide in our hotel. Also, it is freaking awesome. I went down it, like, four times and I wasn't even scared.

And we have another ungodly drive tomorrow, so I'm calling it quits early again. As a consolation treat, please enjoy this video, which is the music video for Old Crow Medicine Show's "Wagon Wheel." It's one of my very favorite songs of all time and, though it's about hitching down the Atlantic coast rather than driving America, it's become somewhat of a theme song for Mike & Shar tours.

Listened to: "Wagon Wheel" by Old Crow Medicine Show, Lagniappe (Slimpickins), Food & Liquor (Lupe Fiasco), College Dropout (Kanye West), Shut Up You F*cking Babies (David Cross), Omnibus (Tarkio), an assortment of Lucy Kaplansky songs including "Scorpion," and the sizzle of two-inch-thick steaks at Gusick's Restaurant.

Mystery words: "BEARS EXIT NOW!!"

Mike's side of the story (with more pix!): astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Eight: Hand me my nose-ring!

2008-04-07T21:54:00.000-07:00

Day Eight surprised us with more of those famous Seattle clear skies. The view from our breakfast table was a little awesome, and I was excited to explore the city. And here's where I talk about our hotel. It's called the College Inn, and it's located right across the street from the University of Washington campus. Built in 1909, it's an Historic Building. That means no elevator, shared bathrooms on every floor, and odd illustrations of children who are actually just tiny adults in each room. It's also quite cozy, with a rotation of friendly young men staffing the tiny attic office, free Wi-Fi, and complimentary breakfasts. It's got all of the minor inconveniences of a hostel without any of the major ones. Comfy, but those creepy Nor'Westerners haunt the showers and the hallways, staring silently and making awkward situations unbearable. Luckily, I'm famously unflapped by awkwardness.

A crisp to the air meant that I was sad to have run out of clean socks two days ago, but shoes, I've learned, can hide all sorts of secrets. I was also a little sad to have started out our day with a $30 parking ticket but, again, unflappable. Public transport took us into the city, and I ignored the way my toes kept sticking together in favor of the sights and sounds of Seattle. And the smells. The smells too.

The Explore Music Project was just short of being really really great. I have to admit, I was way more impressed by the Seattle Center's food court which has within it a bounce house so large it is literally a bounce city and a vending machine that vends Nora Roberts books. The Science Fiction Museum was pretty rad, but I don't know if it beats being able to put a ten-spot into a machine and having a paperback drop down. I mean wow!

But the real "I mean wow"s go to the Seattle Underground tour. After a delicious free-sample harvesting through Pike Place market, a walk along the waterfront...

and a speed-demon appreciation of the Seattle Aquarium...

we took a street car to Pioneer Square for the three o' clock attraction that is just about exactly what it sounds like. It seems that in the mid-1800s Seattle burned to the ground and, when it was rebuilt, it was regraded anywhere from 8 to 35 feet above the previous ground level. Our tour guide was a whirling dervish of punnery which was alternately fantastic and claustrophobic depending on how tall the brick building stacked atop us was. The tour was absolutely fascinating, filled with stories of greed, sex, and poop. We also got our trip's first jab about being Californians, which was kinda cool. Alas and alack, the odd underground lighting meant no good pix came out. But you can do a Google image search as well as I, so take a look!

We had a ton of other adventures in Seattle, but I have to struggle through two coffees and a mocha latte and get to sleep: we're going to be leaving way too early tomorrow morning to drive for way too long. Wish us luck!

Listened to: "Sometimes You Have to Work on Christmas" by Harvey Danger (along with a random assortment of their other tunes), the music we Experienced Project at the EMP, and Slimpickins, a street musician duo playing at Pike Place.

Mystery words: "Mike pooped his pants in Seattle."

Mike writes words as well!: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Seven: Little Shar Goes to the Game!

2008-04-06T23:33:00.000-07:00

The morning of Day Seven broke lazily upon us in our free-upgrade-mini-suite-more-like-mini-sweet. We returned the favor. Lazily we enjoyed the delicious hot shower, our first since leaving Robyn's apartment. Lazily we munched a real breakfast at the hotel's diner. Not as lazily for me, I suppose, since I have decided to do as the Romans do and get caffeinated while we're in the Pacific Northwest. We packed up the car (we're taking votes on what her name should be, by the way) and barely made the check-out time at noon. Just a three hour drive to Seattle, so we could afford to be lazy. And, since Portland's paradise was our first real bed since our first night on the road, I think we rather needed it.

Before we left Portland, we stopped at The Grotto, an absolutely amazing Catholic shrine carved into the woods and stone. It was gorgeous. The surprising sun that had greeted us when we awoke this morning had melted back into the gray, wet afternoon, trapping the sacred place in a heavy stillness unbroken by the few dozen tourists and pilgrims who dotted its 62 acres. My feelings about religious sites tend to be complicated and clouded with different parts of my brain trying to talk at once. So I'm not sure I know what to say of The Grotto. I will say it is beautiful and save the rest for when you and I have a conversation.

As I guess will be the way of this road trip, we careened from the meditative quiet of The Grotto to interstate traffic. The sky dripped wetness on us throughout the drive, threatening to drown out Matt Dillon as he read Kerouac to us. But, just as we entered the metropolitan area, the skies cleared and we saw Seattle. We'll see more of the city tomorrow (our last multiple-night stay until we get to Providence). Today, we rushed to check in to our hotel (more on this tomorrow as well) and then hopped on a bus to the Sonics game at KeyArena.

Wow. I have to say that my very first NBA game was a rousing success. My recent months have been full of high school and college basketball, but I've never really followed the pros and haven't cared about a game since Shaq left the Lakers. Add to that the fact that Mike prepared me for a blow-out game, with Seattle losing in a high-scoring fist-fight against Denver, and you can see why I was a little wary. By the end of the first period, though, you can bet I cared who won. Mike's writing about it right now for LBPostSports, so you can read more about it there. Lemme just say two words to sum up the greatness of this game: double overtime. Let me add two more: Suuuuuuuuuuuuuper Sonics!!

I don't want to close out today's blarg without calling your attention to a very important issue. Pacific Northwest people are creepy. They're creepy, and they're pale, and they move silently through their gray cities like horrible mist monsters. Also, they seem to think I'm someone they know. I had three separate people "recognize" me today, and you can bet I didn't like that. Beware!

Today we listened to: more of On the Road, MTV Unplugged in New York (Nirvana), and 58 minutes of basketball stadium songs (most of which involved clapping and shouting).

Mystery words for today: "Basketball fouls: a cost-benefit analysis"

Check out Mike's blog: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Six: I wish they all could be California towns...

2008-04-05T23:27:00.000-07:00

Waking up on Day Six was amazing. I left Mike snoozing and, our tiny cabin now cozy due to the whirrings of a hearty little heater left on all night, pulled on a sweatshirt and stole outside. The redwoods were quiet. Humid from a night of fog and thick with morning dew, there wasn't even a car on the nearby freeway to disturb the morning. Beautiful. And soon we were in the car, winding our way toward the interstate, the border, and Portland.

Ah, Portland! Our love and gratitude for you overflow and pour out onto your rain-wet streets! The So Cal expatriate KOA owner (who, Mike reminds us, was not so much friendly as Extremely Helpful in a Kathy Bates sort of way) had disparaged it so. But what a city! We checked in to our fantastically comfortable hotel, hopped on the MAX light rail and rode into town.

First stop: Powell's City of Books. Can anything be better than this place? Empirical evidence says no, but I guess we'll have to wait till we see what Bozeman has to offer. The biggest independent used & new bookstore in the world, it's exactly as awesome as it should be. We rushed through, knowing that if we spent too much time we'd spend our road trip money and beyond, quite literally all in one place. We managed to escape with only a $35 bill, spent wisely on absolute essentials. I promise.

Next stop: Pastini Pastaria. After wandering about the city a bit, we stopped in for our first purchased meal since In-n-Out in SF. Delicious, quick, and utterly affordable, we filled up on good food, tasty drinks, and homemade spumoni for only twenty-five buck. It was in a close race with last night's cup-o-noodle feast, but Pastini definitely won a gold medal tonight. Congrats!

And, for the big finish: Too Much Coffee Man Opera: the refill!!!!!!!!!!!!! A little background: I discovered jazz pianist/vocalist Bob Dorough and Shannon Wheeler's comic Too Much Coffee Man at the same time, due to the album Too Much Coffee Man recorded by the singer, featuring the theme song to a proposed TV show. When I tripped across my first TMCM comic in Ashland, OR more than 5 years ago, I instantly recognized it as something truly great. And when I met Shannon Wheeler a few years ago at Comic-Con, he told me that another musical awesomeness was in the works. I have been positively jittery ever since. And suddenly, there we were, far away from home, in the super-swank Portland Center for the Performing Arts, old volunteer ladies peddling comics in the lobby and young indie folks lining up for coffee from the convenient stand outside the door.
And then the lights dimmed and the music started. And it was magnificent. Absolutely perfect. Baritone Stacy Murdock threw all of his considerable talent behind the ridiculousness of the man in the red spandex and the giant coffee cup on his head. I can't thank him enough. We had a great time, and I feel as though I can cross something off my Bucket List.

Yes, I just made that reference.

Ah, Portland! Be but a smidge more sunny and you would be perfect! As Mike says: "I don't want to go to sleep, because then I'll wake up and we'll have to leave." Just a head's up, Seattle. The pressure's on!

Today we listened to: Great Big Sea Live: (Great Big Sea), On the Road, "Convenience Stores" by Buddy Wakefield, an accordion player at the rail station, and, of course, an aria extolling the virtues of a certain caffeinated beverage (while drinking that beverage).

Mystery words: "Pee and poop in the hole"

Read Mike's take on things: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Five: "These are nice trees."--Mike

2008-04-04T20:15:00.000-07:00

We got up early this morning Day Five, had some birthday festivities for our roomie, and got on the road a little later than we would have liked. About an hour and a half out of San Francisco, we made a quick stop at California Carnivores, one of my very favorite places ever. On the grounds of a winery, it's a greenhouse in Sebastopol filled with carnivorous plants. We're talking Nepenthes hanging from every rafter, bogs full of sundews in every corner, and every flytrap and trumpet pitcher in between. I adore these beautiful and strange plants, and it was beyond great to be able to show Mike around the place a bit. You can be my witnesses: he promises to take me back in May with a budget and a mind to make our patio the sweetest (and most dangerous!) place ever.

We're staying tonight at the KOA campground just outside of Crescent City, in a little cabin in the middle of the redwoods. I won't say I'm not cold. I am. Very. I won't say that I'm not worried about bumps in the night (or growls, or scraping ghost chains). I am. Casually. But I will say that it's gorgeous here and that I am at peace. There's a little heater humming away in the corner of the room, an extremely friendly Southern California expatriate in the office, and did I mention that we're surrounded by redwoods?

I've always loved the redwoods. I love the velvety quiet of their forests, the way the crackle of footsteps on the fallen needles do no more disruption than the play of the wind in the trees. I love how secret, tiny trails invariably lead to the most beautiful grove around, the one with the thickest ferns, the most softly creeping sunlight, and the most intriguing smaller, more secret trails running further and further and further away. When I was small, I loved climbing onto a fallen giant, delighting in the tops of my parents' heads. My brother and I would seek out trees hollowed out by fire who were somehow, by some miracle, still reaching, immense and red and leafy, to the sky. Trees that fell, whether because of an axe or a fire or a gust of wind hitting just right on an ancient and weathered trunk, were welcomed to the forest floor with vigor and delight. Soon ferns and even new seedlings were springing from the broken trunk, joyously carrying on the work that older generations had started. Grow! they sang as they became taller and thicker, rings upon rings upon rings leaving record of their trials. Can you imagine that first touch of pure sunlight?

I am in awe of these trees. I'll be happy to sleep among them tonight and to listen to their encouragement long after they have faded from our rearview mirrors. Grow!

Today we listened to: "Two of Us" by Aimee Mann & Michael Penn, "Wagon Wheel" by Old Crow Medicine Show, Her Majesty (The Decemberists), "Grace Cathedral Hill" by The Decemberists, Live at Massey Hall (Neil Young), more of On the Road, and the thip-thip of raindrops dripping from the trees to our windshield.

Mystery ask-us-about-it-when-we-get-home words for today: "headless Babe"

Mike's blog: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

An Interlude: Happy Birthday, Beans!

2008-04-04T20:06:00.000-07:00

A few weeks ago (although it seems like ages now) Mike and I celebrated our 24th birthdays. My birthday is March 1st, and Mike was born a mere 36 hours before me, early in the morning of February 29th. Our roomie Robyn, whose SF residency we recently enjoyed with much vigor, was, due to this same residency, unable to attend our birthday bash. Imagine our delight when we opened the front door a few days later and found these on our doorstep!

Our buttery delicious roomie had made the trek after all!

Today is Robyn's birthday. We wanted to do something for her that was at least half as awesome as the birthday present she sent to us. That's why we were so excited when she showed us the Zombie Brain Gelatin Mold at the Exploratorium gift shop. "Should I buy it?" she squealed. "No!" we exclaimed in perfect unison, "Because we will buy it for you. For your birthday!!"

Please enjoy the photodocumentation of the results: a delicious birthday breakfast for our favorite roomie. Happy birthday Robyn!!

Day Four: Explore! Atorium!

2008-04-03T23:55:00.000-07:00

We spent Day Four saying goodbye to San Francisco and the familiar unfamiliarity of its streets. The San Francisco bay area is close enough to home that it's rather common for folks in Long Beach to make the drive up for a weekend or even a day trip. But it's far enough away that the things we want to make sure and see again are almost always pushed aside for things we never knew we had been missing. Yesterday's slide adventure was one example. Today we found another.

I knew, when I first stumbled across The Exploratorium on a San Francisco website from the comfort of our own couches, that it was going to be awesome. Our genius roomie Robyn is what her peers call a "Science-type Brain Lady." Mike and I, both very much rooted in the humanities, used to love hearing tales from the other side of campus: tales of dissections and nano-things and what exactly happens when you poke someone in the brain. The Exploratorium seemed (and proved) to be the perfect outing for the three of us, and luckily Robyn was able to sneak out of work for a few hours to come with us. It has all the fun and excitement of a children's science museum, but was designed for adults to enjoy just as much. We tracked our eye movements (scandalous!), we made electrical currents dance (scintillating!) and we even played with a robot (scantily clad!). I can't say we ended up learning much, as we didn't have time to read the meaning of the experiment we'd just performed before we were called away to see something even awesomer. We didn't get to see the whole museum (since Robyn had to get back to her brain-poking), so we're looking forward to adding it to our list for next time we make it up here. We still have the "Tactile Dome" left to explore!

After Robyn went back to her obligations, we made a horrifyingly long trek through The Presidio and down to Golden Gate Park, where Mike's brother Matt, having ditched obligations of his own across the Bay Bridge, was waiting for us. Very cold and very tired, we were glad to have him drive us to the Japanese Tea Garden and Kezar Stadium. Generally, we were glad to have him.

Just another touch of home before we start the real hard stuff. Like when our friend Edna met us at the rail stop to say a quick hello and a quicker goodbye before going back to studying for her exams. Oh, what a friendly city!

A short trip to San Francisco was the first vacation Mike and I ever took together and, now that we have family and close friends up here as well, it feels more like a second home every time we visit. So it's probably for the best that we exhausted ourselves walking its hills and riding its oh-so-lovely public transportation today. It's probably for the best that we'll be leaving it for parts much less familiar in a few short hours. Best that we don't get too comfortable here, because we've got a long way to go.

Thanks and huzzah! to all the wonderful folk who made themselves available for hanging out while we were here in your town. Thanks especially to Robyn-the-birthday-girl for renting us her lovely floor space at a family rate and to Val & Whitney for those invaluable Muni passes. Ah, and one last thing we'll be missing as Mike and SharTours rambles on:

Listened to: Whatever random late-night NPR weirdness is playing on Robyn's stereo right now, and the synthesizer that put music to the electrical current that was closed when our mouths touched the water stream of the Exploratorium drinking fountain. Also, the music videos of Montgomery Gentry.

Mystery words: "Cat Salmon"

Mike!: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day Three: Apologies to Witchita as well...

2008-04-02T23:50:00.000-07:00

Waking up on Day Three in our favorite roomie's apartment, eating breakfast out of her familiar bowls, and lazily getting ready for the day in a bathroom that smelled neither of dirty water nor of cigarette smoke was just about the perfect way for these road-weary travelers to start the day. All the weather reports said it was to rain today, so we bundled up and (gasp!) put on shoes, heading out to spend what ended up being a beautiful, if cloudy, day in SF.

We hopped on the fantastic public transportation and met up with our good friends Val & Whitney at about a quarter to one. Except for their college years, they've lived in San Francisco their whole lives, having met and begun dating while they were in high school together. Sound like anyone you know? Val sang with me in Random Voices, and Whitney and Mike bonded over being awesome RV boyfriends. Whitney and I one time both wore white shirts and jeans, and I crossed to the other side of the street before he saw me, so as to avoid the awkwardness.

Every time we come up to San Francisco we enjoy getting the insider's tour from these local folk, especially of the best food in the city. By the time we stumbled back to Robyn's apartment, leg-tired and tummy-full, we had eaten at their favorite burrito joint, gotten delicious organic and homemade ice cream, picked up pastries for breakfast tomorrow, munched on some great hole-in-the-wall pizza, and dipped gourmet Belgian fries into gourmet Belgian dipping sauces.

It's one thing I always appreciate about SF, that I can't seem to find in Long Beach: the endless independent and delicious eateries that are absolutely endemic to the area. In SF it just seems like there are fewer chains and more small shops and restaurants, relying on becoming neighborhood favorites rather than putting up billboards.

By far the coolest random little San Francisco attraction we found today should, in all fairness, have been just an urban legend. We hiked up several hills because Val had heard a rumor... and surely, nothing could really be this awesome. But yet, in the middle of an otherwise completely normal neighborhood, in a tiny park lodged betwixt two houses, was a long and inexplicable concrete slide. Suffice it to say that it will take a lot to top this (sorry Bozeman):

Today we listened to: Whitney strumming his guitar while we tried to muster the energy to walk out the door again, and mad techno beats in the Belgian fry shop.

Mystery ask-us-about-us-when-we-get-home words for today: "Sacramento St."

Day Two: Street View may also have helped

2008-04-01T23:46:00.000-07:00

Day Two, and we're already taking a break. Just a 2 hour drive from Salinas to my college roomie's apartment in the Mission Bay area of San Francisco. She was working in her brain-poking lab till 5:30, so we tried to drag our heels as much as possible, seeing some sights along the way. Here is something we should have planned out more carefully.

We stopped at the San Francisco 49ers headquarters in Santa Clara, hoping to spend an hour or so driving around, peeking in on a pick-up game between off-season players. We packed Mike's Joe Montana football just in case we ran into the legend and he wanted to toss the ball around. Of course, when we arrived, it was a beautiful building (flying a 'Niners flag under the American one) with some branded SUVs in the "Restricted Parking" lot. We snuck a couple of pictures from across the street, then were back on the 101 about fifteen minutes after we'd disembarked. Five hours until Robyn gets out of her lab.

We thought we'd explore Mountain View a bit, so we got off a couple miles up the road, right in front of the Google compound. There was a sign saying "Visitor's Lobby," so we thought we'd pop in and kill a few hours with a quick tour and some free T-shirts. Passing fleets of Google bicycles, two "Expecting Mothers" parking spots, and the famous Google mini-vans, we took advantage of the free valet parking and trotted into the lobby. Turns out there's a strict closed campus policy, and visitors without an employee accompanying them are promptly escorted off the premises. We grabbed some free Naked Juice and got back on the freeway. Twenty minutes killed. We should have asked Jeeves.

The drive through the Stanford campus was pretty but it couldn't last forever. Candlestick Park was closed and, though it was awesome to be only a huge parking lot and a chainlink fence away it, one can only drive around it so many times before the drug dealers doing business across the street start to get suspicious. Even getting lost on the way back to the freeway was little help: we arrived at Robyn's apartment at 2.

In any case, we're here now, and it's good to have an oasis to relax in for a few days before we embark on the rest of our journey. We've got a couple folks we'll be visiting and many cool sites we're looking forward to seeing again. And, with Robyn's rad apartment at least half-filled with familiar furnishings, San Francisco is homey and comfortable. Drink up, camels! It's going to be a vast desert before we're staying with friendly faces again.

Today we listened to: Willie Nelson Essentials, Where Have All the Merrymakers Gone? (Harvey Danger), and the first hour of the audiobook of On the Road.

Mystery ask-us-about-us-when-we-get-home words for today: "bronze spider"

Mike's blog: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

Day One: Travels With Sharley

2008-03-31T21:50:00.000-07:00

We have deemed Day One a success. We went to bed last night incompletely packed, sunburned, and muscle-sore (thanks, basketball in the park!) but woke up this morning with a few hours of sleep under our belts and just enough energy to shuffle to the car, scoot the car into the traffic circle, and plop ourselves onto the fabled Pacific Coast Highway. All of this, and only 2 hours off schedule!

As we passed through La Cochita (a little house-cluster a few miles south of Santa Barbara), Mike said: "Why would anyone even try and argue that anything's better than California?" And, though I may be singing a different tune at the end of our Mike-and-SharTour, I have to agree. We're only about halfway through the state and we've already seen a head-spinning display of diverse and spectacular beauty. From the muddy, muddy slopes of Malibu to the coastal wineries and lettuce fields... we're not unaware of how lucky we are to be Californians. Look at what 6 and a half hours of good hard driving can show us!

The reason for staying in Salinas, of course, should be obvious: it's Steinbeck country. After checking into our hotel, we went straight to the National Steinbeck Center and paid our discounted ticket rate (friends, don't ever throw away your student ID cards!). What a cool place. The main exhibit, of course, is about John Steinbeck's life and work, focusing on his ties to Monterey County. The Center's only 10 years old, and the exhibit is modern and innovative to prove it.

The real gem of the Center was the exhibit tying in to Salinas' choice for The Big Read, a national event trying to bring literacy back into American culture. The book is Bradbury's Fahrenheit 451, and there are many really cool events going on here, including a program wherein participants name and defend the one book that they would save. At the Center, there's the Walking Through the Book exhibit, which artistically portrays scenes from the book while highlighting the importance of knowledge and free thought in a highly awesome way.

Today we listened to: We Were Dead Before the Ship Even Sank (Modest Mouse), Going Somewhere (Colin Hay), "California One/Youth and Beauty Brigade" by The Decemberists, and "Wagon Wheel" by Old Crow Medicine Show (thrice).

Mystery ask-us-about-it-when-we-get-home words for today: "giant painted people"

Don't forget to check out Mike's blog: astoriedyear.blogspot.com

On Shoes

2008-03-27T20:29:00.000-07:00

When I was very small, I wore very small sandals. My favorite zori were light blue ones, with a rainbow and the word "Hawaii" where my very small foot slipped in. When I got a little bigger, I would always dread the coming of fall, when I would have to stuff my feet back into their school shoes again. And, crushed together and unable to breathe, my toes would whimper all day until I came home and let them free. It wasn't just me, either: I used to close my eyes and listen to the sound of people walking by, knowing that when I heard a slap-slap on the ground I would open my eyes to a brother, a mother, or a father standing over me. Zori meant family, freedom, and a chance for my toes to show their personality. By extension (to my naively dichotomous mind), shoes meant strangers, confinement, and forced conformity.

I walked across the dried lava fields in Hawaii, wearing my zori down on the rough stone until there were holes where my heel could feel earth. I wore sandals around Mono Lake, careful as I walked not to tread on flies or to splash in briny, shrimpy water. I don't wear them when I drive, but this is only because I drive barefoot. I am barefoot in my apartment. I am barefoot when I sing onstage. I am barefoot as I run across grass.

This is all to say: I am packing shoes on this road trip. Specifically, I am packing the Converse I bought to keep in my locker at work, the ones I tied on and took off with my clock-ins and -outs. It is time for them to be dusted with the dirt of freedom. And, though my toes will long to wiggle no less in the chilly air of North Dakota, I cannot bear to lose one of them because of their foolishness. They are important to me, so I will lock them away, like a dozen-or-so little Rapunzels.

Exactly like that.

We are here! We are here!

2008-03-26T00:14:00.000-07:00

So, I think it's safe to say I was having an off night (more on this, almost assuredly, will come in a later post). Mike, being the awesome that he is, dropped the road trip itinerary he was typing up and swept me away to go see Horton Hears a Who!, which I've been eagerly anticipating since I first saw the teaser trailer before The Simpsons Movie.

For those unfamiliar with the Dr. Seuss book, the set-up is basically as follows: Horton, a happy-go-lucky and 100% faithful elephant who has previously hatched an abandoned egg, now comes to the rescue of the tiny inhabitants of Who-ville, a town entirely contained upon a speck, which in turn resides on a clover flower. Also, for those unfamiliar with the Dr. Seuss book, shame! Shame! Hissssssssssss....

Fellows, the movie was awesome! It wasn't just funny and silly and heart-warming and all the bare-minimum things you'd expect from a movie with Dr. Seuss's name on the poster. It was also really beautiful-- blending the art of Dr. Seuss with the realistic elements of computer animation into something new and utterly delightful. And the funny and silly and heart-warming parts definitely went above and beyond the call of duty. There were several scenes that had me cracking up (particularly, for some reason, the ones involving Seth Rogan's Morton), and tears were threatening on at least two other occasions.

All in all, I think one of the things I loved most about this movie was that there wasn't a Central Theme or a Grand Lesson. Pro-lifers have been co-opting the line "A person is a person, no matter how small" for their own purposes, but I was pleasantly surprised to see that this wasn't really the Ultimate Focus of the film. The story and the characters within champion individuality, imagination, friendship, and faithfulness. But I felt like the point of the movie can best be encompassed by a phrase like "Be good" or, maybe, "Be the best you can be at being who you are." Towards the end of the movie, Horton gives his thanks to everyone who's been involved in his journey. And he thanks his best buddy (for sticking with him), he thanks the mayor of Who-ville (for always believing in him), and he thanks his neighbors (for caging him and poking him with sticks). I like that, in this movie, there are no villains. Only folks doing their best at being who they are, playing their part in the story to the best of their ability. Even Horton, the hero of the story, is just being who he is: after all, an elephant is faithful, 100%.

Anyway, this movie is fantastic. It takes a great story by a genius of children's literature and it makes it, somehow, into something more. What more could you ask for?

Road Trip Planning: Seeing the Forest, Seeing the Trees

2008-03-22T18:45:00.000-07:00

Wow... nine days to go. Mike and I have been completely overwhelmed by the vastness of the experience we're planning for. It would be hard enough if we were just planning routes and finding lodging. But we're acutely aware of the fact that this is a once in a lifetime kinda trip, and we have no idea when (if ever) we'll ever be back in some of these places with time to explore.

So we've been spending pretty much the entire week (not an exaggeration, actually) with our lappys open, making lists of all of the "must see" places we'll be going through. And, friends (or, more likely, friend), there just aren't enough hours in the day. There are parks, lakes, forests, and waterfalls. There are libraries, museums, monuments, and walking tours. And theaters, and concert halls. And sports complexes. And hundreds of uncategorizable random things that aren't even counting the things we'll find as we drive by them on the highway. Did you know that Salem, MA has a Wax Museum of Witches and Seafarers? Not that I at all wanna go, but still...

Without seeing any of the South, and while only seeing half of what we want to see and spending only two days in New York, our trip is going to take more than a month.

Can you believe this country?

Reason #Billion that this road trip is gonna be off da hizzle!

2008-03-20T15:13:00.001-07:00

Mike just did a Ticketmaster search for events in Portland while we're in town. And! Guess what's opening the night before we get there?

Tickets: purchased. This is going to be the best thing ever! EVER!!!!!

If you're not familiar with Too Much Coffee Man, this is really your loss. He now exists mostly as a webcomic, but he started out as an indy comic, first self-published by Shannon Wheeler, and eventually picked up for a few color issues by Dark Horse. And he's awesome. He's a superhero of sorts (in that he wears spandex and occasionally interferes in other people's lives), but mostly he's just weird. When you add his friends Too Much Espresso Guy and Too Much German White Chocolate Woman with Almonds into the mix, you know it'll be an adventure.

And might I add that Mike is the freaking awesomest? He was so excited to tell me when he found this that he was giggling like a little kid. And you think it's because he wants to see a tenor sing TMCM arias? I doubt it. Reason #1 that this road trip is gonna be off the hizzle: best co-pilot ever.

I read a book!

2008-03-19T20:34:00.000-07:00

I know I shouldn't sound so stoked about it, but boy am I. I think of myself as a Reader, and when weeks (months?!?) pass between books, I start to feel a bit antsy. And I don't know whether working in a bookstore caused me to avoid books in my free time (I hope that's not it, but I've known too many ice cream-hating Cold Stone employees to rule it out), or whether it was working in general that robbed me of the time or drive for reading, but it's been a while. I've been reading the weekly comics, but I'm not actually sure what my last book was. Yuck!

Oh, but all that has changed now. It's been almost exactly a month since I left my job at Borders, and I have finished a book!!! And, appropriately, the book I finished was yoinked on my last day of work, carried away from the store in the same bag that held my nametag lanyard and the assorted papery contents of my mailbox.

As a side note: there are many cool things about working at a bookstore. There are many lame things as well, but I think the cool ultimately outweighs the lame. And one of the mega-cool things that helps to tip those scales is the bookcase of promos in the manager's office. Borders gets metric tonnes of free books, movies, and CDs specifically for giving away to employees, so they can better recommend these items to customers. We're not just talking about romance novels and Wine for Dummies DVDs, either. Publishers won't send the huge releases, but many of the middling ones come in and wait to be yoinked by mild-mannered booksellers who become voracious book-readers in their off-hours. As I was cleaning out my mailbox, I found a coupon for 2 promos from the office that one of my supervisors had given me months ago for being so awesome. And, in Joe's office, I found an advance reading copy one of the books I'd been eyeing on the new hardcover table since it'd come out. Gold!

The Monsters of Templeton, by Lauren Groff, snagged my eye initially because of its interesting cover design:
And the blurb on the back of the book was enticingly vague, promising mystery, murder, ghosts, romance, and even a literal 50-foot-long lake monster. All revolving around a graduate student's search for some family secrets in her small New York town (modeled after Cooperstown). Sounds cool, doesn't it?

I read the last 75 pages of the book last night and I have to say I'm highly satisfied. It was an engrossing read, both because the characters were so sympathetic and because the mystery was so compelling. The main character, Willie Upton, returns to her small town after leaving her Stanford graduate program in scandal. And when her mother reveals that there are some secrets in the family tree, Willie starts digging through the town's library, uncovering some seriously weird skeletons in some seriously oddly-shaped closets. The Monsters of Templeton is deliberately genre-bending, but in the end I'd probably call it mostly historically fiction, with some fantastical trappings thrown in for spice.

It's Lauren Groff's debut, and, especially as the various threads of the plot are first being set up, this is obvious. Even the plot blurb in the back of the book screams MFA grad. A wiki search just told me that she's got another novel on its way; I look forward to checking it out.

Now... time to browse the (newly alphabetized) bookshelves at Casa de Higabascio for something new to read. I'm back, baby!!

A note on travel readings!

2008-03-16T16:30:00.000-07:00

One of the things I always look forward to excitedly when there's a vacation on the horizon is, as my parents used to say, reading until I go blind.

When I was a kid, my folks would go on long road trips every August. My dad still marvels at how my brother and I were, at very young & squirmy ages, able to enjoy 6 hour car rides through the blazing desert in a VW van with no air conditioning and no music. Our secrets to success (I'll give you a moment here to grab some paper and a pen): a blanket hung up to block the sunlight streaming through the windows and stacks of books to pore through. The occasional mother-mandated gaze out the window did little to slow the voracious digestion of stories from every genre, consumed in great quantities. I have a strong memory of driving through Death Valley (DeathValley.com's slogan: "Hot enough for ya?") and getting a bad nosebleed which ruined my brother's Calvin & Hobbes book. I read Heidi in one long jaunt through Northern California and consumed a Danielle Steel book one year when it was the only book the owners of our rented Mammoth condo had left on the shelved. And the picture at the top of this blarg is of me looking for even more books in a used bookstore in Eureka, CA.

Luckily, Mike and I share a love for reading in interesting locales, which is why on our honeymoon we packed a suitcase entirely with books. Our upcoming road trip is going to be a literary adventure as well as a geographical one. And I'm particularly excited because since my last road trip I've developed an appreciation for the rather apropos genre of travel writing.

Working at Borders gave me a different way of thinking about books, especially in terms of shelving locations. So let me point out that the books I'm interested are probably not going to be found in the bookcase at the end of the Travel section, right across from the Natural Healing shelf. My favorite in the genre is The Narrow Road to the Interior by Basho (specifically the Sam Hamill translation), and is shelved in poetry. Other than that, there's the Kerouac's classic On the Road and Craig Thompson's Carnet de Voyage. Need I mention Dave Barry Does Japan? I didn't think so.

What I love so much about these books (besides the deep existential satisfaction of reading a book about travel while traveling) is seeing how people much cooler than I transpose their unique and creative worldviews on new places and situations. It's obvious that no two travelers will get the same experience out of a trip. What's really fascinating to me is how a traveler shapes his destination and his encounter with it. How different Craig Thompson's time in Morocco would have been if he had been writing haiku instead of chronicling his experiences with a sketch book! I read these books and can imagine, even for just a moment, how the authors would have traveled in my world.

So yes, I'm excited to take these fellows along with me as Mike & I roam America. Hopefully they'll chip in some gas money.

Why I will Most Likely Begin Blarging Again.

2008-03-13T19:48:00.000-07:00

Hello! It's been a while! I've aged literally months since last we spoke. But you-- wow. You look just the same. What's your secret? I mean really!

Now that the small talk's out of the way, let me tell you why I'm here. Mike and I are about to embark on something that's equal parts fantastic, horrifying, and unbelievable. I'm calling it Mike-and-SharTours for now, but I'm sure I'll come up with something better before we leave.

But I digress. Let me help you picture what I'm talking about, using a picture:

There, do you see?

Yes friends, from March 31st until April 30th, we're going to be on the most bitchin-est road trip since Kerouac roamed the streets of America. Plan on reading a lot about it as we plan and accomplish it with the greatest of ease!

A Bedtime Tradition

2007-11-25T19:40:00.000-08:00

I am lying on my right side. Mike is reading, and over my left shoulder his bedside light glows soft orange. My right hand is under my cheek. My left hand rests on my right bicep and my left elbow rests on my hip. My eyes are closed. I am going to sleep.

My left foot is an obtuse angle to my shin. I move my ankle, and my heel touches Mike's knee. I stretch out my leg, but my knee won't extend far enough to release the building tension in my calf. I pull my legs back up, and now my knees are touching each other. My left leg is bent up. Too high. My right leg is bent up. Perfect.

My right wrist needs to rotate. I pull it from under my cheek and now my fingers need to be extended. I grip the air. I ignore the growing fear in my chest. I am ok. I am ok. I breathe in and out and now the angle of my left arm is too acute.

I lie on my back. "Everything ok?" No. "Yes, I'm just getting anxious." The blanket is too heavy on my toes and my wrist still needs to rotate. I flex my calves and I can feel the fear spreading to my shoulders. I can breathe. I can still breathe.

I can't close my eyes tight enough. I can feel my contact lenses, and I can't blink hard enough to stop my irises from itching. My arms are too close to my body.

This is anxiety. I close my fists, and I open my fists again. I can feel my fingers and I feel my toes and my hair is tickling on the back of my neck and everything else is tight, tight, and I am afraid that I won't ever fall asleep because as much as I try to forget it the angle of my legs is still all wrong and I am squeezing my eyes tight and they are itching.

Breathe in. Breathe out.

I will wake up in the morning and I will have slept. And tomorrow night, I will have another chance to make it on my first try. For now, I only have to slow down my heart and pull my hair back and then my knees will be right and it will be ok.

Breathe in.

I am ok.

Breathe out.

I am ok.

SPOddities.

2007-10-29T19:38:00.000-07:00

I'm about a month into my new position at Borders. Officially, I've moved from being a bookseller to a member of IPT, the group o kids who are in charge of taking stuff out of boxes and putting it on shelves. Actually, my new job is rather specialized: I get my own email address and my own desk full of interesting treasures (such as a dozen box cutters, a phone list for employees from when the store first opened, gold stickers with 79¢ printed on them), and lots of random responsibilities without any more money than I was making when I spent two hours of my average day leaning on the register, staring into space. Ah well.

One thing that's turned out to be a little weird about the SPO job is how much I now know about our regular customers. There's the obvious: emails, phone numbers, and preferred spellings of ridiculous names. But then there's the odd trivia. There's a lady who buys only cowboy romances, usually with three or four open orders at any given time. There's an old woman who seems to order based on the "I remember this, I should buy it" logic. Last time I talked to her on the phone, she described some generic plot points to me with the hope that I could name the movie for her. There's a guy who orders books about meditation that always arrive smelling of Nag Champa.

And then there's this guy:

I imagine him to be a tall, scrawny Indian fellow from England whose hair is a little to slicky and whose laugh is 40% brash and 60% mortified. And he's obsessed with Mariah Carey. Over the past two weeks he has placed about 15 orders for Mariah Carey products. Sometimes he orders twice to make sure he gets what he wants. There are the CDs you'd expect, of course: albums, best of's and the like. And there are DVDs: movies she's starred in, live concerts, and cheaply produced documentaries of her career from random music channels. And then there are the books. These books are almost all in what we in the biz call "Library Binding." Unlike normal hardcovers, with usually come with a dust jacket or something equally classy, these books have the cover art imprinted on the cardboard and then shellacked for protection. They have identical pictures of Mariah on the front and bear titles like Mariah Carey: Her Story. I imagine they are meant to inspire young girls, little divas-in-training. I do not know what my English Indian gentleman wants with them.

And, not knowing, I feel as if I know far too much.

Read my friends!

2007-10-15T00:13:00.000-07:00

As I'm sure every single person reading this blarg knows, while Mike was at CSULB he spent a lot of his time and energy in the office of The Union Weekly, the student-run newspaper on campus. While there, he (and I) made a slew of awesome and extremely talented friends. How awesome? Well, four out of the ten members of our combined wedding party were Unionites. How talented? Well, they are, as a group, some of the best writers I've read. They're also really really funny and stupidly intelligent. They're also frustratingly underrated by the world outside the campus doors.

Take our good friend and favorite bud-bud J.J. Fiddler. When he took over the Union sports section in 2005, he revitalized a previously worthless page and made it one of the pages I turned to most eagerly each week. In 2006 he single-handedly, through the power of his editorials and a healthy amount of sheer determination, made CSULB basketball something to fill the student section over. And besides being the kind of guy people in college gear want to follow into gymnasiums, J.J. is a flat-out exceptional writer.

When The District Weekly started up in Long Beach approximately 27 weeks ago, it seemed like the perfect fit for a lot of Union alums. Their whole mission statement revolves around reporting culture and life in a Long Beach-specific context. And who knows better about Long Beach life than the amazing writers who'd spent their college careers talking about it? Certainly the editorial staff of the District, who produce a great publication, don't get me wrong, seem to miss out on some of the big things that make Long Beach not only great, but unique. It's not just all about cool hole-in-the-wall bars or art galleries. Sometimes it's stuff that makes the cover of one of the nation's most popular magazines.

In 2005 Sports Illustrated named Long Beach Poly High the top sports high school in America. Generally, my alma mater has a great athletics department that has produced national legends. Billie Jean King and Tony Gwynn both came through Poly's gates. But it would be impossible to talk about Poly sports without leaving 90% of the talking time for the Poly varsity football team which, as a public school, has sent more players to the NFL than any other high school in the country. And, though Poly is far and away the best football team in Long Beach (no bias here), it certainly isn't the only school playing the game.

Doesn't this seem like something The District, the self-proclaimed voice of the people of Long Beach, should be talking about? Or rather, since J.J. has been covering Moore League games since the start of the season, shouldn't it be something The District and its readers should be reading and paying attention to? As opposed to, say, ignoring and/or talking shit on?

Yeah, I think so too. Check J.J. out over at the Long Beach Post where he gives his mid-season Moore League report. And read him at The District too. He's doing a great job with not a lot of room to run. If this were the Union, I'd be all over that message board. Since it's not, I'll rant here instead and send my droves of readers to do my work for me.

The prices of things

2007-10-04T17:51:00.000-07:00

So, I'm almost done with my second week back at work. It's an odd, but mostly pleasant experience to be back to a daily grind-esque sort of schedule with the wonderful addition of a real live hubby to come home to. The daily grind part is odd. I'm working 9-5 now, as opposed to the random assortment of 8 hour shifts starting at 7 am on some days and ending at midnight on others. While I was gone, there were about 6 new hires, and about 4 of the people I had expected to see again have quit. So it's a different place than it was when I left, but that's ok. I'm different too, after all.

This week I started training for my new position: Special Orders Troll of Borders at the Pike. I'm pretty sure that's the official title, although it might be "goblin." Turns out a lot of this new job involves waiting around for things to happen. There are orders to be processed in the morning, and then it's mostly waiting for shipments to arrive, usually around the middle of the day. So I think I'm going to be bored, probably a lot. We'll see... training is a lot different than the real thing.

Today I found a book called something like Long Beach in Vintage Postcards or somesuch. Flipping it open, I was struck by what a bustling area downtown Long Beach, especially the Pike and its surroundings used to be. Now, of course, not so much the case. It breaks my heart to direct inquisitive customers to the Wal-Mart up the street, but it's by far the closest music store, electronics store, clothing store, and office supply store. Lame.

Here's something that's not so lame: there was a postcard of a beautiful downtown Long Beach building that rented out apartments for $32 a month. A buddy at work pays $800 a month for his studio apartment. Bored, I figured it out. The 1925 apartment cost 4% of what the 2007 apartment does. For shits & giggles, I estimated the cost of a gallon of milk, a pack of cigarettes, and a few other common items. Then I performed the essential calculation:

5318008 x .04 = 212720.32

That's right. In 1925, the approximate cost of seeing "boobies" upside-down in the calculator was just a tad over 200 thousand. Amazing.

Boobies.

Scene: Saturday morning, breakfast

2007-09-29T12:16:00.000-07:00

[Mike's cell phone rings]
Mike: Hello?
Tiny Asian Lady Caller: Is Shar there?
Mike: Um... yeah. Hold on.
[Mike hands his cell phone to Shar]
Shar: Hello?
TALC: Is Shar there?
Shar: This is Shar.
TALC: Wrong number. [hangs up]

Wedding Disc 2: Shar's Music

2007-09-01T02:42:00.000-07:00

We got married yesterday! There will be much more on that later. Mike and I made (with the help, and more importantly, the laptops) of many of our friends, two mix CDs of music that's been important to us for all our guests to take home. The first disc was (mostly) songs he's given to me. He wrote about them over at his blarg. The second disc was (mostly) songs I've given to him. Here's the tracklist and the story behind each song.

1. Broken Things- Lucy Kaplansky
When Mike and I were first falling in love, this song played in my head and on my stereo a lot. The line "you walked right into my darkness, speaking words so sweet..." perfectly describes how wonderful it was to find someone who was brave enough to stand by me when things weren't just happy sunshiny picnics for me.

2. Homeward Bound- Simon & Garfunkel
Throughout the five years we've been together, there have been many times I've been away, whether for a family trip, a singing responsibility, or just school. This song speaks to the frustration of being gone when everything you want is back at home waiting for you. As soon as I turned the corner and started the return trip, this song would be on my mind.

3. At Last- Etta James
One of those lovely jazz standards that gets played at weddings so often that it would be cliché if everyone who'd ever fallen in love didn't still get teary-eyed when they heard it. Last year, I sang this at a wedding reception and caught Mike's eye across the room.

4. Please Be Kind- Jane Monheit
This was on the first mix I made for Mike. When we first started going out, neither of us had a clue what we were doing. We just had to be careful with all of the trust and love we were giving to each other, making sure not to take anything for granted. I think it turned out okay.

5. I Know Why (And So Do You)- The Manhattan Transfer
This was also on that first mix. I remember a couple years ago, I was really upset because it was raining on my birthday. Mike and I walked down to Westwood, had a great dinner, and walked back in the downpour dancing and singing at the top of our (my) lungs. "I can see the sun when it's raining, hiding every cloud from my view..."

6. Come Away With Me- Norah Jones
The first time we heard this song was during an otherwise uninteresting episode of Saturday Night Live. We'd propped up on pillows on my dorm-room floor and were talking about other things when we both noticed, at the same moment, the beautiful song coming through our tiny TV's speakers. If ever we were to run away together, to live in a tiny cabin with just room for the two of us, this is the song we'd run to.

7. Radio Sweethearts- Kate Rusby
My whole time at UCLA, I shared a room with my roomie (and maid of honor) Robyn, whom Mike and I both adore. But it was tough having four years of not very much time spent just the two of us. When we had evenings together, we sometimes liked to push the tables and couches out of the way and dance. A lot of the time, it was to this song. Listen to it, I'm sure it's obvious why.

8. When I'm Sixty-Four- The Beatles
One of the top things I love about Mike's family (it's a long list) is his lovely grandparents. Just a few months after we started going out, Mike took me up to visit them, and we've shared countless meals and a few theater outings with them since then. They recently celebrated their 60th wedding anniversary. Their love is an inspiration to us. I'm happy to have such a wonderful growing-old partner.

9. The Promise- Tracy Chapman
This song has gotten us through some hard times. No matter how far we seem to get away from each other, no matter how long or difficult the low times are, we're always going to be coming back to each other.

10. You're My Soul and Inspiration- The Righteous Brothers
This is just a great love song we love to sing along to. So much of our relationship has been built on times in the car, listening to oldies radio stations and singing along. This is one of our favorites.

11. If You Only Knew- Kara's Flowers
The first time I heard this song, by the L.A. band that would eventually become Maroon 5, I knew I had to play it for Mike. It's talking about all of the little things that become big deals when in a relationship with any geographical distance involved-- especially when that distance has to be traveled on the 405 freeway.

12. I Believe- Stevie Wonder
I couldn't tell you why Stevie Wonder has been such a crucial part of our relationship. Part of it's gotta be that he does great Christmas music, and Christmas is our favorite holiday together. Whatever the reason, this song has all the classic Stevie, and it gets us every time.

13. Don't Mind Me- Lucy Kaplansky
Another song off that first mix. The line "I'm just a bit maniacal about you, and derailed when I'm without you" pretty much perfectly describes the insanity of falling in love at the end of summer, when free time spent together is about to become a rare and precious luxury.

14. Wild Honey- U2
I've always found the idea of eternal love, reincarnating since the beginning of time, to be a little out there (think Hawkman and Hawkgirl). But I love the idea of Mike and me being monkeys too much to not love this song.

15. Heavenly Day- Patty Griffin
This is off Patty Griffin's newest album, which just happened to be on overhead play for the first month of my job at Borders. It was a rough transition for us to go from seeing each other all day every day to having to schedule our lives around work. But every time I heard this song (which was probably five times a day) I got the gentle reminder that we don't need anything other than to be together to make it a perfect day.

16. Just You Tonight- Lucy Kaplansky
One of the benefits to having a humble beginning to our relationship is that we don't easily get distracted by the trappings of romance. There were no clinking champagne glasses or fancy dinnerware to help us along the way. It was just the two of us, and that turned out to be more than enough to build on.

17. Our Love is Here to Stay- Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong
I have always had a soft spot for vocal jazz, ever since my middle school choir teacher first told me I would love Lambert, Hendricks, and Ross. Ella & Louis have some of my favorite vocal duets ever. "The radio and the telephone and the movies that we know may just be passing fancies, and in time may go..." has been a fun line to think about as a whirlwind of technology swirls around us. Our relationship started with a dial-up modem and a landline phone. Right now, we're writing on our bed with our Apple laptops propped up in front of us. Who knows where we'll be in another five years? But we'll be next to each other, so it'll be great.

18. I've Got My Love to Keep Me Warm- Ella Fitzgerald & Louis Armstrong
Ella & Louis again. It's more or less literal-- I get cold really easily, and there's nothing like snuggling up to the man I love, under the arm that's molded itself to fit my shoulders, to make me feel all wrapped up and cozy.

19. Danny's Song- Anne Murray
One of my favorite songs to sing at the top of my lungs. Besides the beautiful chorus, I love the line "if you find he helps your mind, better take him home." Long, long conversations with Mike about everything we can think of have made me think about life in a hundred new ways. He's probably the smartest guy I know, and we're going to have hairy little genius babies.

20. Two of Us- Aimee Mann & Michael Penn
It's a Beatles song, but I think I might like it better the way it is on the I Am Sam soundtrack, as a duet between a man and his lady. I don't care where we're going-- life is better with a Mike in the seat beside you. We're lucky enough to have had a cross-country road trip and thousands of miscellaneous other miles of adventures together. And we have so much road still ahead of us.

21. The Luckiest- Ben Folds
This is our song. It's what was playing when Mike first said he loved me. It's what we clear the furniture away for on every anniversary, and it's what we danced our first dance to at our wedding reception. And it says for us so many things that we have spent the past five years showing to each other. I am so lucky to have Mike, and we are lucky to have each other. I'll never forget that. But it's not just luck. He is such my perfect match that I have to believe that, instead of as high school sophomores, if we met for the first time in sixty years as old, old people, we'd look at each other then in our wrinkly old eyes and we'd still know. Instead, we get to spend all that time together, and, because of that, I count myself the luckiest.

An Anniversary Blarg

2007-08-24T23:26:00.000-07:00

Today is a special day for me and Mike! Five years ago today, Mike and I had what we later decided was our first date. Since Mike was more-or-less bedridden after his ankle surgery and was certainly wheelchair-ridden (wheelchair-riding?), our first date actually consisted of us sitting in his living room watching Lord of the Rings. It might not have been glamorous, but I think it turned out alright. Here's what we looked like that year:

Today also marks two years since Mike proposed. We'd gone up to Arrowhead for our third anniversary. Mike, who's terrible at keeping secrets, had had "gonna propose to Shar" written all over his face for weeks. It wasn't a surprise, but it was still sweet and wonderful and all of those lovely things a marriage proposal is supposed to be. Plus, I pretended it was a surprise, so that was great too. This is us that year:

And today is the official seven-day countdown till the wedding. I'm sitting on the couch watching Mike play Mario Strikers right now, but at this time next week, we'll probably be leaving the reception, having been pronounced husband and wife several hours earlier. It's been a crazy last few months, and next week is gonna be insane, but it's really nice to have today to relax a little and just reflect on who we are and where we came from. We've got quite a nice little history together so far, and I sure can't wait to see what's coming up next. There's nothing quite as wonderful as knowing that, whatever the adventure ahead of us in the years to come, we're going to be adventuring together. And, when we're old old people, if we haven't already evolved away from computers by then, maybe I'll have some really neat pictures to post up here so you can see how much we've grown together.

I'm pretty sure they have a secret club.

2007-08-24T22:26:00.000-07:00

"They" in this case being Ornery Old Ladies. Further, I think the Ornery Liberal Old Lady from my last post must have sent out some sort of vaguely lavender-scented Old Lady newsletter, because boy-oh-boy did we have an encounter today. I also suspect that she sent out a mass email to the Ornery Old Ladies' Junior Division to get the rotten teenaged girls in on it too.

Let me preface this by pointing out that today is our anniversary. I'm going to be posting about that in a moment, but let me just set the scene a bit. Today is our anniversary. We lifted our holiday ban on wedding-related stresses long enough to go on an incredibly pleasant trip to the florist with Mike's awesome mom to finalize the deets. Afterwards, we stopped by Trader Joe's to pick up some sundries. Imagine:

Standing in line behind Mike's mom, Mike and I have an arm each around each other. He's whispering in my ear something sweet about loving me and not being able to wait to marry me. There is an Ornery Old Lady behind us in line. She says "Get a room!" and then rams her shopping cart into my heel.

Now, the comment itself was unbelievably rude. It was also completely unjustified. There was no excessiveness in our displays of affection. We weren't even kissing. Besides, Mike and I are freakin' adorable. Doubt me? Check it out. The ramming part? Well, that's just new levels of amazing. You've got to be pretty ecstatic with your life to think that other people's happiness is a violence-worthy crime. Luckily, Mike and his mom only heard the comment, and I only felt the cart. If any of the three of us had been aware that both things had happened, there would definitely have been a show-down.

A couple hours later, Mike and I decide to treat ourselves to some anniversary ice cream. Rather than walk to the Baskin Robbins down the street, we really decide to go all out and drive to Cold Stone. There, we are delighted to help pay the salary of one of the bitchiest, most eye-rollingest ice cream scooper ever to chop up Heath bars. Observe:

Girl Who, Despite How Highly She Thinks of Herself, is Still Just an Ice Cream Scooper: Yes?
Mike: Can I get a regular-size strawberry with--
Ice Cream Scooper: I don't understand you.
Mike: A reguler-sized strawberry?
Ice Cream Scooper: [points angrily at the "Like It," "Love It," and "Gotta Have It"-sized cups on the counter, indicating through jabs and eye-rolls that she only understands these categories]
Mike: Oh. Well, the "Love It" size please? Strawberry with Heath bars and fudge sauce--
Ice Cream Scooper: With what?
Mike: Fudge sauce? Like, the fudge syrup that--
Ice Cream Scooper: Oh.
[She plops Mike's ice cream into a regular-size container and then looks at me.]
Ice Cream Scooper: And?
Me: Can I have a "Love It" coffee with Heath bars and Oreos?
Ice Cream Scooper: [Chops up my ingredients with all the finesse of a petulant seven-year-old kicking a bottle cap, then hands me my regular-size container]
Me: Thanks.
Ice Cream Scooper: (to Mike) How are you paying?
[transaction continues][Exeunt]

As someone who deals with people all day, both in my customer-service-oriented job and in the fact that I live among other human beings, I really can't understand how someone can be so unpleasant. Hey! Here's an idea! If you don't like people, how about you take a job where you can just sit alone in your home and just scoop ice cream for yourself and the few smelly dullards who have nothing better to do with their lives than swoon at your sub-par Heath chopping skills? And you, Old Lady! How about you take some of the money you're saving by not buying snacks and cheap toys for the grandchildren who never want to come visit you because they can't scrub the vaguely lavender smell of Ornery Old Lady off themselves for weeks afterward and the spongy feel of Ornery Old Lady kisses haunts their nightmares for months and, instead, hire someone more pleasant to do your grocery shopping for you? If two young people talking to each other is enough to really push you over the edge into violence, isn't it about time you reevaluated whether or not you should go outside ever again? I happen to know a eye-rolling young lady who would probably love to mash your pills into your sherbet for you.

And on our anniversary, too!

Reading By 9 Book Drive

2007-08-22T21:36:00.000-07:00

So, I think I can pretty much promise that this is the last time I'll advertise a Borders promotion on my blarg. "This" here refers to what will make up the remainder of this blarg, not my mentioning of the fact that, starting on the 28th, the bags of Lindor balls (yum!) will be 75% their regular price, and thus only a buck and some change. Oh sweet, delicious heavens (or, as the official Lindt chocolate website describes it: "endlessly smooth and creamy... Lindor")!

The real reason for this blarg is to discuss one of the hands-down coolest things I've been a part of at Borders since I started. It's the Reading By 9 Book Drive, and it's a means by which customers can donate books to Los Angeles-local schools in an effort to promote literacy. Borders is partnering with the LA Times and Scholastic Publishing (which is matching book donations 1-to-1) to try and answer the staggering statistic that four out of every five third-graders in SoCal can't read at their grade level. I think it's a pretty great program, and it's been awesome to watch box after box fill up with donations of The Berenstein Bears and Dr. Seuss. My favorite thing is getting to pick a book for a customer who is willing to donate but doesn't feel like picking a book for themselves-- I'm putting books that helped make me love reading into boxes to send to kids who haven't yet gotten the bug.

My favorite customer response so far has been this one:
Me: We're having a book drive this month, trying to help kids in the area start reading by nine. Would you be able to help us out by donating a book for about 4 bucks?
Stressed Mother: Well...
Adorable Daughter: Do it! You should do it!
Stressed: Okay, what book do you want to donate?
Me: We've got some Magic Tree House books here. Do you like those?
Adorable: Yeah! Magic Tree House!
Me: Hmm... we've got one about pirates. How about that?
Adorable: (gasps!) No...
Me: What about dinosaurs? Do you like dinosaurs?
Adorable: Yeah! Dinosaurs!
[I ring up the purchase and give the mom a sticker that reads "I shared the joy of reading"]
Stressed: (smiles at daughter) You did a very nice thing today, honey. You helped someone else learn to read.
[Adorable smiles][Exeunt]

My least favorite customer response?
Me: We're having a book drive this month, trying to help kids in the area start reading by nine. Would you be able to help us out by donating a book for about 4 bucks?
Ornery Liberal Old Lady: No.
Me: Okay...
Ornery: The government should be giving the schools books, not us.
[transaction continues as per normal][Exeunt]

I hate to tie things together that aren't necessarily really related [she lied], but this reminded me a lot of that pesky third Noble Truth. Adorable and her mother recognized a problem and did something small to help. Sure, one $3.99 book is probably not going to change a life (although it very well could). But think of how much positivity was generated by that interaction! Adorable got a sweet sticker and got two adults asking for her opinion on something Important. Stressed got to think that her daughter was really, excitingly awesome and Good (plus, she racked up some valuable Borders Rewards points). The cockles of My heart were glowing buttery golden by the end of the conversation. And this is all besides the book donation itself, which generated a book in the hands of a kid, a matched book donation from Scholastic and a percentage-of-sales cash donation from Borders, Inc. By contrast, Ornery saw the same problem and talked herself out of doing anything about it. She got upset because of The Way Things Are and left the register stickerless and in a classic Liberal Old Lady huff. I was generally annoyed at the situation because Ornery, under the guise of social awareness, had passed the buck, leaving the hypothetical kid bookless just because she didn't think it was a situation she could (or should) change. Yeah, realizing there is a problem is the first step. Realizing that the problem has a cause is the second. But unless you're willing to recognize that something can be done to solve the problem, we're just going to be stuck in a golf cart with stuck in the mud, inventing new fuels to keep the wheels spinning endlessly, but refusing to get out and push.

This is a cheap, easy, and convenient way to generate a little positivity in the world. Plus, you get a sweet sticker. Do it! And pick up some Lindor balls while you're at it.

Oh, the things I have forgotten!

2007-08-17T22:51:00.000-07:00

One thing I do enjoy about my job is the people I work with. One of my supervisors is always really willing and (gasp!) actually interested whenever I lecture him on why, exactly, his reference to some aspect of Eastern religion is horribly misinformed. The first time this happened was when he teased that his karma had run over my dogma and I refused to let it go until we were spending our lunch hour discussing why time is like an apple.

Today, he described himself as a fat and happy, like Buddha. I sighed and rolled my eyes dramatically. Yes, I'm an annoying jerk like that. But (honestly!) only with people who secretly, on some level, enjoy it. I explained that the "fat and happy Buddha" was actually a bodhisattva named Budai, a Chinese version of Maitreya, the buddha-in-waiting for our world system. The obese joviality of Budai was no accident of the glands; he acted the clown to make his lessons all the more meaningful when they finally hit home to all of the I-know-betters out there. Then we talked about all of the vastly different ways to be a Buddhist. Buddhism, the Middle Path, is an umbrella for extreme ascetics and those who use sex and other worldy delights to keep the body occupied and set the mind free. "In order to be considered a Buddhist," I said, "one only needs to be believe in the Four Noble Truths, even if it's a unique interpretation of them."

I followed that rather learned-sounding statement up by listing these truths. Or, rather, I tried to. But (oh horror!) I could only remember three of them! Blarg! I've been out of school for too long! Hours later, I was finally able to recall the one I'd missed. It was the third one. The first two state that 1) Life is suffering and 2) Suffering is caused by desire. The fourth says that the way to end suffering is the Eight-fold Path. This leaves the one I'd forgotten: 3) There is a way to end suffering.

When I first remembered it, I scoffed. My first thought was: well, that barely counts as a separate one! But the more I thought about it, the more I realized that it's really just as crucial as the others. It doesn't take much to explain the first two. Just a good hard look around is enough to see what's meant by the first. People are sad and lonely, sick and in pain, and (and this is a maxim!) "that's life." And, if you never wanted happiness, it wouldn't hurt so much when you didn't get it. And the fourth truth? Well, that's just religion. That's the pamphlet once you've got your proselytizing foot in the old widow (or recent immigrant)'s door. But the third truth is the crucial balance between blissful ignorance and despair. This isn't a religion of hellfire and brimstone. It's not about groveling and wishing in the hopes of not being condemned to eternal teeth-gnashing. Life is suffering, yes, but there's a way out! Suffering isn't the end-all of existence. It's not the final victor. Or, at least, it doesn't have to be. The fourth truth tells you the solution, but telling you there is a solution in the first place is maybe even more important.

I left a note explaining all this in my supervisor's mailbox, so he'll have plenty to think about before I get to work at 4 tomorrow. As for me: I realized today that I miss learning. I miss school and having to add new knowledge to existing foundations. I think my existing foundations are losing their structural integrity. I think I might have to crack open some old textbooks before my next lecture.

Shar Party!

2007-08-09T13:38:00.000-07:00

So, Monday morning, Mike goes out to check the mailbox. This has lately become a very exciting part of our day, as each trip usually yields some pretty green rsvp cards letting us know that Yes! some cherished friend or relative is coming to see us get married. Anyway, on this particular day, Mike comes back in with a big grin on his face. "Not many rsvp's, but you got something exciting..."

Yes friends!! A letter arrived from UCLA's diploma processing center announcing that finally, over a year since I walked across the stage in Royce Hall all be-decked in gown and cap, my graduation is finally official. After over a year of fretful optimism and crushing disappointment, my diploma has started its two-month-long journey to my mailbox!

So yeah, great day. Dan and Beef came over for dinner & hang out time and it was pleasant all around. Until I realized that it was after two in the morning and I had work at 7 am the next day...

Blarg. Three hours of anxious sleep later, and I was getting ready for my day. I put up an away message on AIM: "i am not expecting today to be particularly fantastic. go ahead, tuesday! prove me wrong!" It didn't start out well. Three people called out on the busiest Tuesday of the month: over 30 new hardcovers and almost 40 new paperbacks to put on display, as well as big changes for all the other displays and tables in the store. A surprise lunch with the boss (a "business lunch" at Boston's for the GM and the employee of the month!), a closed-door meeting with one of my other managers about a full-time job I think I might take, and some surly customers rounded out a very very busy day. I called Mike when I clocked out to let him know I was staying at work for an extra 22 mins to wind down with an episode of Arrested Development in the break room. "Okay! Take your time. I'll see you when you get home." Forty minutes later, I opened the kitchen door, put my leftovers in the fridge, rounded the corner into the living room to see...

A Shar Party!!

So sorry for all of you that missed out! There were balloons and presents and some delicious treats. Oh, and there were even party decorations on the wall! I am sorry for those who missed out... alas, it was a very exclusive guest list. Just me and my hub2be! Here he is, looking very pleased with himself:

And here's me, equally pleased and super happy:
Did I mention there were party hats? Cuz there were! I literally got cheek cramps from smiling so big. Long story short: my hub2be is the best. We watched The Princess Bride (cuz I'm a princess, evidently) and then I fell asleep on the couch until it was time for a delicious steak dinner at the future-in-laws'.

What could be better?

"A trip down memory lane"

2007-08-02T13:59:00.000-07:00

That's the subject of the email Wesley sent me a few days ago. The content of the email was a poem I'd written on the occasion of our graduation from high school. And a trip down memory lane it was, indeed. I'm not really much of a poet. In fact, the only poem I've ever really been proud of now hangs over the sink at Mike's mom's house: a little piece filled with slapstick humor, pratfalls, and doggy doo.

Here's what I wrote in a card congratulating Wesley on his graduation from Long Beach Poly in 2002:

And so it ends.
Not with marches, flowers or ceremony.
Not loudly, not all at once.
Slowly we sneak away.
We fly, we drive, we run
away.

We leave, but we don't forget.
We mature, but not too much.

And we remember the years together:
the months spent confused
in walls, desks, and body paragraphs.
the precious weeks of freedom
when we pretended not to miss each other.

And we think of the days ahead.
Of the days days days days days
ahead----
When it will be harder to remember
who we were
what we've left behind
where we've come from.

And still we sneak away into the future
faster now!!
Until the faces have grown faint.
And all we see when we look back
are vague images of happiness.
Then our hearts will smile and remember.

Because we won't let them forget.

High school was awesome. And weird. But the weirdest part of it was it ending. Because I don't think there was ever a time while I was in it that I really believed that all of its ups, downs, and odd in-betweens would ever be just a memory.

Cinematic moment narrowly averted

2007-07-16T14:40:00.000-07:00

A few days ago, my manager switched out the Shrek 3 soundtrack for the Beatles' Love album in our queue of 5 overhead play CDs. On the one hand, the Love album is almost a year old, and thus cycling it through the store's speakers isn't necessarily gonna encourage people to buy it. On the other hand, if you're coming into my Borders looking for a CD, you're already in the wrong store. And Love is awesome, whereas Fergie singing "Barracuda" gets old real, real quick.

Last night I was shelving in the religion section, in a pretty rotten mood. One of those moods where I'm just slightly annoyed at everyone and, since I had to spend the first two hours of my breakless 5 hour shift on registers, I had already had about enough of smiling customer service. If I recall correctly, at the time I was grumbling to myself about how quickly the Buddhism books had gone from their aesthetically immaculate alphabetization to a jumble of misplacements and inconsiderate stashings.

Then the Beatles started singing "All You Need is Love."

Behind me, over my right shoulder, a girl started singing the chorus. Not quietly, either. In full, joyful voice. And, a moment later, another voice joined in, this one a pleasing tenor. And there was another moment, pregnant with anticipation, in which I was sure that the whole store was going to start singing. Laughing, tears forming and spilling, we'd all join hands and be glad to be human. We'd realize that it's easy to love one another, all it took was the willingness to do so. And we'd sing, probably in perfect harmony, again and again: "All you need is love. All you need is love. All you need is love. Love. Love is all you need."

Instead, the moment passed. The two singers, who had evidently come in together, moved down the aisle and their voices faded, lost in the jumble of a busy Sunday night. And it left me to wonder: how many other voices would it have taken for me to join in the song? How many smiling, loving faces would have had to turn my way before I joined in the celebration as it paraded out the café door, spreading into the night and into the world?

Would I have needed a bag check from a service manager before I left?

Quality Paper #8: 1000 Places to See Before You Die

2007-07-03T17:14:00.000-07:00

The title is pretty self-explanatory, don't you think? This book and its cousin, 1000 Places in the USA & Canada to See Before You Die, both by Patricia Schultz, are hopping on and off the bestseller bay like fleas in a Long Beach apartment. On the one hand, it's a pretty cool travel guide outlining the must-see destinations that might otherwise pass you by. On the other hand, it's creepily a part of that odd niche in the market pandering to, encouraging, and encouraged by those who feel like, if they could just check off enough boxes on their to-do list, they could finally be content. As a side note, today we added to the new QP table Eat This!: 1001 Things to Eat Before You Diet. I hate puns, so I didn't laugh loudly at this for several minutes.

So today is July 3rd, 2007. It is officially 59 days until the wedding. I was thinking about this the other day, back in the blissful calm of a full 62 days of planning and prep, and I realized that this kind of anticipation is kind of a new one for me. Part of it, of course, is that I've never gotten married before. That's obvious. But I think an even bigger part is that I've never really counted down the days until something started before. In recent years, I've counted the months and weeks and days until the end of the term or graduation means leaving friends-- the end of an era. There's been the baited breath waiting for an upcoming release: a book, movie, or album that when I was finally basking in its presence, would make the next few weeks sparkle a little more brightly-- the end of anticipation.

And here I am, half-nervously, half-excitedly, half-disbelievingly (I'm multiracial. I'm allowed.) watching the weeks march off my calendar. And it's amazing because what I'm waiting for isn't really the wedding. The wedding's just one day. It's gonna be rad, don't get me wrong. But what it really is is the start of something new-- a new phase of life that I'm completely stoked on entering into with the awesomest guy in the world. I couldn't ask for a better Lewis to my Clark and, luckily, I don't have to. It's kind of neat that I'm not trying to stuff a bunch of "last times" into the next 59 days. I'm not counting down to the end of anything. What I'm really looking forward to is standing at the top of a mountain with my best bud at my side and looking around for a bit, then stepping together in a direction that's ours to discover.

What a lucky duck I am! What a great set of explorers we'll make!

$19.95

Cloth Fiction #1: Lean Mean Thirteen

2007-06-30T01:25:00.000-07:00

It's called Lean Mean Thirteen and it's the new Stephanie Plum novel by Janet Evanovich. We shelve them in Mystery/Thriller, and they're all got hideously garish covers and titles playing on the number the book is in the series (beginning with One for the Money). This week it knocked A Thousand Splendid Suns off the number 1 spot. I guess folks like numbers.

So, Anime Expo has come to the Long Beach convention center. This means that, along with the normal crazies (haha) of downtown LB, along with the normal weekend rush, we now are also flooded with hyperactive teens in their cosplay outfits raiding the manga section and lounging in the walkways throughout the store.

It's not that I hate them, per se. I get it. I really do. I'm not going to get down on someone for being a nerd. I like math, I like to read, and I've been in choir since fourth grade. And I love comics. Not just the high-brow literary stuff either. I love seeing guys in capes dodging blasts from ray guns, I love watching epic spandex v. spandex rooftop battles. No, anime kids, I don't hate you for being nerds. I hate you because you suck. You really, really suck, and that makes me sad.

A girl that I work with asked over the walkie today: "Are half-naked men allowed in the store?" It's cosplay, I know... but if your favorite character is Man in Speedo, can't you bring a bathrobe so you can at least pretend to be a decent human being when you're walking through my store, rubbing your who knows whats on everything and everyone in sight?

Or, wait. No, I'm sorry. This is the weekend where all of your fantasies come to life, right? Man in Speedo, if your fantasy is 13 year old girls in short skirts and knee-highs, then welcome to heaven. They come in groups of three or more, and they're all super giggly to be away from their parents for the weekend. Tee hee!

It's not that I hate them. Not exactly. I hate how they descend upon the store like some sort of locust swarm, where the locusts think they're Japanese and think we're smiling at their elaborate hats because we're bummed we didn't think of them first and we're staring at their nerdy locust boobs because they are so damned provocative. You are wrong, locusts. No one thinks your sunburned locust boobs are provocative.

If I sound bitter it's only because they smell bad.

$27.95

Cloth Fiction #1: A Thousand Splendid Suns

2007-06-17T01:02:00.000-07:00

The book is A Thousand Splendid Suns, the highly anticipated second novel by Khaled Hosseini, author of The Kite Runner. The story is of two Afghani women, elder and younger wives of an abusive husband, who become family to one another in a hopelessly war-torn country.

in stories, things tend to work out. even if there's no neat, happy ending, you can pretty much bet that problems that are brought up are going to be addressed, if not solved. if you learn a character's name, chances are he's going to be a cog in the machine leading towards the climax, the denouement, and the end of the book. the phrase "she finds [love, help, danger, etc] in the most unexpected place" is thrown about a lot on dust jackets, but, in reality, if there are details in a book that don't turn out to be some sort of foreshadowing, the prose often seems a bit messy.

maybe it's the curse of an avid and early reader, but it sometimes gives me pause to realize that that's not even remotely true in life. if daily life were a series of short plays, each one would have a huge dramatis personae, and it's often hard to predict when a character is exeunt-ing for the day to return several years later or tomorrow or never. at any point a complete stranger can be the Big Difference.

the other day, a girl i hadn't really thought about since middle school came into my Borders and changed my mindset for the rest of the day with our short interaction. the weird thing is that it wasn't that weird... this is Long Beach, after all. who knows how many lives i've changes by interactions i didn't even know were happening? and how different my own life would have been if i hadn't, senior year of high school, accepted a ride home a then-auxiliary player, a friend-of-a-friend who, in two months, will be my husband?

in a cliché sort of way, it's chaos theory. it's also a staple of buddhist philosophy: everything's interconnected, and the course of that system of "cause and effect" can only be predicted by very naive junior monks who are then to be whapped on the back of the neck into enlightenment. handing a mud pie to a man who will, lifetimes later, be the Buddha changes the course of history. and those things that seem so ever so important can just as easily fall by the wayside. who can tell?

and my point? i dunno, i guess it's that, no matter how much you hate them, you shouldn't wish for the eradication of all bees in the world. Mike.

$25.95

something i think i may start doing!

2007-06-14T23:52:00.000-07:00

since graduating from ucla and moving back to Long Beach, the question i get asked most often is "so, what are you doing now?" i guess i should kinda take it as a compliment. people characterize me as the Type Of Person Who Does Things, and are thus curious as to What I Am Up To Now. well, the truth is, i'm not really up to much. there's planning for the wedding, of course, and that's taking a lot of time and energy and is generally rather exciting. and there's trying to figure out what to do with the rest of my life... yeah, we'll get to that later. what's really taking up my waking hours (and many hours that should rightly be spent sleeping) is working at Borders down at the Pike.

it's not the best job in the world. there's lots of crazies, there's the general lameness that comes anytime one is required to spend 8 hours a day doing something. but, at the end of the day, i'm working with pretty neat people and i'm always surrounded by books. so that's rad. one of the cool things that comes with the territory is thinking constantly about books i've read, books i'd like to read, and completely unrelated things that leap into my head prompted by some word or image on the cover of a book i'm shelving.

here's what i'm thinking: every day i stare the Borders Bestsellers display, which faces the registers where i stand uncomfortably and wait for a customer to deposit their manga or self help dribble uponst my scanner. i'm gonna start writing based on what's staring back at me. if it amuses me, i may keep it up for a while. if it fails to amuse me? let's be honest. i've got a shorter attention span than you. i'll think of something else.

further thoughts on that which is important

2007-06-10T15:05:00.000-07:00

a few weeks ago, i sang for Frank Manaka's 100th birthday party. i called him a few days before to go over last-minute details and, not surprisingly, the conversation wasn't the smoothest. i was driving in traffic and he didn't have his hearing aid in. it took me a good minute of shouting into the phone for him to realize who i was. he told me that, what he really wanted, was a sing-along. he wanted me to lead his friends and family in singing songs that meant something to him. and he especially wanted me to learn "Let Me Call You Sweetheart," which had been the song he and his wife used to sing to one another. when we sang it at the party, he was smiling behind his harmonica, with tears in his eyes.

here's a story i wrote:

He left the funeral quietly. Her friends were huddled in clumps, chatting darkly and laughing brightly. A widow caught his eye and smiled sadly, sweetly. He nodded and slipped away. His right side was cold as he stepped out of the church and, as the street zipped by the little parking lot, as good folks with important things to take care of marched past in loud pairs and trios, he missed her. He walked to his deep blue sedan and sank into the driver's seat, struck with the sudden desire to go somewhere, to do anything but live the life he'd lived for the past forty years, only with a little coldness on his right side. But then he was pulling into his driveway and walking up the front steps. He was turning the key in the door and walking in to his living-room. He saw two chairs at the table and an extra phone handset for when their grandson called. There were unopened videos stacked next to the television console and a CD leaning against the stereo: gifts from family who remembered the things they had enjoyed over the decades and had forgotten that what they really loved to do now, now that they had time and before they lost the energy, was sit on the couch and chat mindlessly with one another. He went into his bedroom and took out his hearing aid.

wherein shar concludes that, while some things are important only relatively, some things are objectively Pretty Noteworthy.

2007-06-07T22:59:00.000-07:00

so i've had this domain name and this blog-shell up for a while now (a week at least, maybe more) but i haven't been able to think of exactly what to fill it with. mike over at astoriedyear has this rad project going where he's putting up a new short (sometimes short short) story every day for a year. i've got nothing as creative in mind, and, if i did, i prolly wouldn't be able to birth it uponst the world quite so eloquently.

so this blog-shell has been sitting here, empty. gosh, i don't ever think anything that's worth being the first post, with all of the historical importance that title carries with it.

and then, there's this: for the past month-or-so mike and i have played host to a rad gentleman of a cat known affectionately as Stumps the Cat, on accounta his half-a-tail. pretty immediately after he demanded to be let into our apartment one 2 am in early May, we fell in love with him. we spent the following weeks alternating pretty much daily between wanting to get rid of him and wanting to make him a permanent addition to our little family. on the one side, he was loud and annoying and made us both sneeze and the bathroom floor a sandpit of misplaced litter. on the other hand, he liked to curl up on our toes and would sometimes bite our chins gently when he was really really happy with a petting he was getting. so we continued to grumbly grow more and more attached to him.

tonight, i let Stumps in when i came home from L.A. he lept up into my lap as i tried to type on my computer and wouldn't shut up till he was scratched to his content. then he sat in a shoe box. then i let him back out. shortly after mike came home, we heard him meowing alarmingly outside, like he was scared or being hurt. and i heard voices outside on the sidewalk. i ran out the door and approached the people, two girls and a guy. "have you seen our cat?" "actually... he's our cat. we lost him about a month ago. we've had him since he was a kitten."

goodbye, Stumps the almost-was-our Cat! we were happy to have you and glad to have been a safe place for you while you explored the world beyond your own apartment complex. the apartment that was just a little too small for the three of us will now be a little too spacious without you underfoot.

a buddhist lesson about non-attachment here would be trite. i'm glad i loved that cat, even though it hurts that he couldn't stay forever. when i started writing this blog, i had something entirely different in mind for it. something about how something doesn't need to be really important to be noteworthy. it's all a matter of perspective, after all. but, Stumps, you are truly a cat to be remembered. so this first post is for you. and especially for your half-a-tail with the seahorse hook on the end. i love you still.