San Diego is on Fire

This is 2003 all over again. I hope to god that it doesn’t turn out as disastrously. Yesterday, I was out downtown with Lisa and we noticed that the air was extremely smoky, enough to irritate our throats and lungs. Back at her house, we found only a little information online about three fires in San Diego County. The smoke seemed to have diminished somewhat by evening, but I closed all my windows and turned my air filters up as high as they could go before I went to bed. I can smell smoke anyway as I type.

This morning I was woken up before 7 a.m. by a call from my brother: he is visiting family in New England and heard that his brother-in-law needed to evacuate. Could he stay at my house if the shelter was full? Of course. I called Stephen twenty minutes ago and he said that Poway hasn’t had a mandatory evacuation yet--just an “advisory” one. He is safely ensconced at his parent’s home and will call if anything drastic changes.

I have been trying to find out more online. What I can glean is that there are nearly a dozen wildfires burning in Southern California, at least six of which are in my county. One fire has been attributed to a downed electrical line. The reason so many fires have erupted all at once is due to weather conditions known locally as “Santa Anas.” Santa Ana conditions bring extreme dips in humidity coupled with high temperatures and high winds blowing in from the east, rather than off the coast as they do under normal circumstances. What this means is that the risk of fire skyrockets and once the fires start they are very difficult to contain.

I have lived in San Diego off and on (mostly on) since 1989. While fires have always been somewhat of a problem in this area, I had never witnessed what they are now calling “firestorms” before 2003. Now, a mere four years later we are experiencing this form of disaster once again. Drought conditions are worsening; how can anybody deny that major climactic change is afoot? I’m frightened for what it bodes for our future.

Updates on fire conditions can be found here on the local news site. The SD County emergency site has the most up to date information, particularly about evacuations and such.

I will update this post as I learn more. Be safe.

11:56 a.m.
So far over 100,000 acres have burned; interstate 15 remains closed for several miles between the 78 and the 56. Those of you who live in the area should consider offering help if you are not directly impacted by the fires: shelters, especially the big one at Qualcomm, are in need of blankets, towels, shampoo, and pet food. Lisa and I have put our names on the list for the Humane Society to take in extra animals. Many evacuees are not able to take their pets with them to shelters, so think about calling the HS with your info to help. We are also taking water to the Qualcomm shelter, as well as some pet food.

2:26 p.m.
The names of the fires (in relative order of size) are the Witch Creek Fire, Harris Fire, Guajito Fire, Rice Canyon Fire, Coronado Hills Fire, McCoy Fire, and Descanso Fire. The Witch Creek and Guajito Fires are burning right through the corridor that wasn't burned in the 2003 Cedar Fire. There is also another unnamed red dot on the map up by the Rice Canyon Fire, and two friends who live in rural zones have told me that new fires keep igniting all over the place. It looks like 1/5 of the entire county (area-wise, not population-wise) has been evacuated at this point, even some areas along the coast. Lisa and I are leaving right now to take water, pet food, towels, and blankets to Qualcomm. I'm going to wear my heavy duty particle mask while I'm out. I'd rather look like a freak than damage my already struggling lungs.

6:38 p.m.
I just got home. I am very happy to report that there was a huge line of people at the stadium waiting to make donations. Stuff was piling up so much they had to keep taking truckloads of it away. I've never seen so many pillows in my life. In the queue on the way to the drop-off point, there was a woman driving a car full of five large dogs--three Malamutes and two Newfoundlands. Beautiful puppies! I rolled down the window and asked her if she had enough food for them all--we had a 20 lb. bag of dog chow in the trunk. She said she was ok. On the way home, the sunset was a dramatic glowing red orange. It was spectacularly beautiful, except that it made both Lisa and really solemn, because we knew what kind of destruction was causing the riotous haze.

And now the winds are picking up--it's awful--the palm trees are wearing all their fronds on one side as the wind pushes into them. Another night of 50-75 mph winds spells disaster, and the particular problem with Santa Ana winds is that they don't die down during the night at all like the normal winds do. They are actually increasing. The two biggest fires, the Witch Creek and Harris Fires, are barely 5% contained right now. I just found out that the Harris Fire is ZERO% contained. The smoke is filling up the entire southern sky with a muddy haze. It's terrible to see.They said on the radio that none of the firefighters are being allowed to go home--they are staying on and working in shifts. Half of them rest as the other half go out to confront the flames. And we are witnessing the largest evacuation San Diego has ever seen--more than a quarter of a million people have now been displaced. But here is a spot of good news: the Coronado Hills fire, near San Marcos, has been 100% subdued and people are being sent back home. It was one of the smallest fires, but I'm grateful for any victory at all over this conflagration.

10-23, 6:37 a.m.
This is worse than 2003 by far. The Witch Creek Fire is 0% contained and is going to burn its way to the ocean. It's even spread north, now, too, and last night at 9 p.m. it had already burned 145,000 acres. Who knows what it has grown into overnight. The Harris Fire is 5% contained. It hurts to write this.

Dog Therapy

I have encountered an unusually large number of dogs during the past several days. I like this very much. I love doggies in all their furry waggy joyful gleeness. I wish I could have a few of my own; since I can’t, I thoroughly enjoy the time I get to spend with other people’s pooches.

A few days ago I got to take Jen’s dog to the beach. Since Ken (yes, he has a people name, which should amuse those of you no end who are acquainted with my brother) is a retired guide dog, he sometimes has trouble getting in touch with his doggy side. This trip to the beach was the very first time ever I saw him actually approach another dog. He did great--tail wags, butt-sniffing, wide-mouth smiles, the whole routine. I’m so proud and happy for him. He even played once. It was amazing. He crouched down on his front legs and did that spastic backward jumpy “come catch me” thing while woofing and grinning foolishly. It was such a joy to see him enjoying himself so much. He played in the water and even chased a few other dogs around for a while.

And then he peed on some guy’s shoes. It turned out ok; the young man was very nice, as was his girlfriend, although she was laughing her head off the whole time. I myself was having an immensely difficult time not laughing through my profuse apologies, but I felt it would be rude to laugh more than his girlfriend did. The whole thing happened in slow motion. You see, Ken’s favorite thing to do at the beach is to run around to all the piles of seaweed, sniff them in several places, and then pee on them. Evidently he also sometimes has a little difficulty discerning what is seaweed and what is not. I looked up at one point to see him standing over this couple’s belongings in his “I’m gonna pee on this!” stance. I ran over as fast as I could, yelling at him to stop, as the girlfriend attempted to gently pry him away, but he’d already pretty much nailed one of the shoes. At least they’re washable. The boyfriend even sat down and gave Ken a lot of good-natured rubbing and kisses after the whole incident blew over. What a nice guy.

Friday night we were at a pub for a small going-away party for Molly from Stone. We will miss her terribly. Who am I going to make movies with now? At any rate, a couple in the "beer garden" area brought their two goofy-cute Basset hounds with them. They were awesome-- all wrinkly and pudgy and floppy-eared with the most soulful deep doggy voices ever. They apparently are regulars at the pub, and are quite vocal about their excitement about being there. At one point the boy dog just sat within a circle of about five of us and bayed his head off. It was adorable. The owner lady kept apologizing for the noise, but I told her not to worry, that he was making a valuable contribution to our conversation.

And then, early Saturday afternoon during the beautiful rain that had woken me up that morning, I looked out the window and saw a couple walking a very playful medium-sized beagle mutt dog. The best part was that he was wearing a black raincoat. With a hood. Holy crap, it was awesome! He was such a happy raincoated doggy. And then yesterday, to top off all the gleeful puppy-ness, I met the most amazingly sweet and cuter than hell Boxer puppy at the bagel shop. Her name was Sadie, and she was the adorabalest most wonderfullest dog ever. Ever. I’ve always loved Boxers--they are so damn goofy and silly and they have a tendency to lie down on their tummies with their back legs splayed out like frogs. Oh, how I love them!

Chocolate Frosted Sugar Bombs

I went to Ralph’s today with a friend, because she told me that they sell the full lineup of Count Chocula, Franken Berry, AND Boo Berry cereals now. All three of ‘em! I was a little disappointed; they only had the Franken Berry in stock, but it’s probably just as well. I don’t think I could actually eat much of any of them, really, and certainly not three whole boxes worth. But I did buy myself a shocking pink box of the Franken Berries and I just finished a bowl of them a few moments ago.

Sadly, things have changed since the sugary-cereal-laden halcyon days of my youth. The box graphics are totally different--Franken Berry is larger than life and the whole box is scarily pink and fuschia colored. There isn’t a picture of actual cereal anywhere on the box. And they changed the marshmallows! I know this shouldn’t really disturb me as I’m a fairly strict vegetarian and can't eat the marshmallows anyway. But they added a bunch of little white ghosts, purple bats (which were rather cute, I must say) and some indistinct blobby blue things that I couldn’t for the life of me figure out what they were meant to be representing.

So I had to pick through the bowlful of cereal and remove all those puffy little interlopers in an attempt to regain the nostalgic cereal experience I was yearning for. Was this stuff REALLY that color when I was a kid? I can’t believe I ever ate it without worry. It is a truly violent shade of hot pink that in no way should ever be put in anyone’s mouth if they know what’s good for them. However, it’s probably all that horrific carcinogen-laden red dye that helps produce the sweet pink strawberry milk after it sits in the bowl for a minute or two. Still, I think I feel rather ill now... Maybe I’ll just put the box up on my wall as a Halloween decoration and forgo any future attempts to actually ingest it. The trip down memory lane simply isn’t worth the gastrointestinal distress that follows. Beware the berries of Franken, my friends.

Northwestern Exposure

The Seattle area is beautiful. Absolutely gorgeous. But any of you who have ever been up there before already know this. I am now back home, and I must say that I am not especially fond of the warmer weather, the trees that display only one color of leaves in the fall, the dearth of rainstorms, or the asphalt and buildings that engulf my home. It rained nearly one hundred percent of the time I was up north, and I loved every minute of it. I told my friend Steve that I need to buy a little pennant that says “RAIN” on it in big campus-style letters so I can cheer for it as it pelts down from the sky. Yaaaaaaaaaaaaaayy RAIN! I even got to experience a little hail. Wonderful.

S & P (they sound like a gas station, don’t they?) live in an amazing place. Issaquah is much smaller, population-wise (well, most likely geographically as well) than Seattle. Therefore it has a lot more nature gallumphing its big puppy-dog self all through town. Trees and streams and bazillions of plants popping up everywhere. Even the light posts have overflowing baskets of flowers hanging from them. S & P’s apartment building is set back and down the hill from the main street (not that it’s a busy one) so you really don’t feel like you're in the city at all when you are inside their apartment. It’s more like summer camp. You can see no other buildings, just a steep hill facing them, and their back wall, with its sliding glass doors and balcony, overlooks a very small patch of lawn, teeming woods, and the beautiful Issaquah Creek. You can take a walk from their place along the creek and then further down the hill toward town.

On Sunday, Monica came up to visit, and we all traipsed down the path to look for fish, since it is spawning season for the salmon. We saw about a half dozen in the shallow water downstream of the small dam, their fins breaking the water and making little wakes. One salmon even tried to leap up the fish ladder while we were there, but it didn’t make it. It made it up one “step” and then got washed back down again. We kept walking down til we got to the fish hatchery that is just downstream. Thousands of salmon are diverted each year into the hatchery so that the eggs and young fry can be protected from predators until they are old enough to be released into the wild. The fish’s numbers are still really struggling and they need some extra assistance from humans (we're the reason they're struggling in the first place!). We spent a lot of time watching the salmon leaping and splashing their way up the ladders in the hatchery. It was thrilling. They had built numerous windows into the concrete structure (photo above) and you can stick your nose right up to where the fish are milling around and jumping and thrashing and slapping their tails. It’s quite spectacular. Actually, the most spectacular sight was the stream itself where hundreds of fish had queued up, trying to get upstream when the hatchery’s gate was closed. A barrier has been built across the stream adjacent to the hatchery to prevent fish from bypassing it, so when the gate is closed, the fish have nowhere to go. But they keep trying! Check out the SalmonCam that shows the barrier across Issaquah Creek.

At one point, the stream was so full of salmon it was more fish than water. Silvery fish bodies, all oriented upstream and swaying gracefully as the water washed over them, formed a nearly solid mass in the creek bed. Many had to struggle and thrash around to get over the really shallow parts. All waiting, all patiently biding their time until they got their chance to leap at the barrier holding them back. And the leaping display was incredible! Pam and I actually both felt a little upset after a while, watching so many of the fish futilely propel themselves out of the water again and again. We placated ourselves with the hope that fish don’t feel frustration, but they were still probably pretty tired out.

During my trip, we also went into the city to watch a really amazing concert--The National--at a great venue called the Showbox. I have decided that I like the band rather a lot. The lead singer’s voice is deep and expressive and wonderful. This is their myspace page, where you can hear more of their music than on the previous webpage. It's actually pretty un-obnoxious as far as myspace pages go.

I also got to go on a short hike in the rainforest on the lower slopes of Mt. Rainier. It was raining prodigiously, as is only fitting. The trees were covered with so much moss in some places that they looked like they were melting. There was water everywhere, falling from the sky, shining and dripping from the leaves, running along the trail, running under the trail; it was glorious. The trail on the main short loop from the road was actually a built-up path, but it looked totally natural. The path was built out of large, chunky sections of wood and then covered with soil and gravel. Moss and other vegetation has grown all over everything, but occasionally you see glimpses of shiny wood or the water passing right under your feet. Without the raised path you would be slogging your way through a mini-swamp. Everything man-made along our short hike had been so taken over by the water and the vegetation, so darkened into shades of glistening brown and green and covered with fuzzy drapings of moss, that the bridges and railings look like they just grew there.

I apologize profusely that I have no photographic evidence of any of this; I didn’t bring my camera and S & P’s batteries were not working in theirs.

My friend Monica lives in a yurt. It’s beautiful inside; lots of natural light and a high, pitched ceiling. I actually do have a photo of this, caught split seconds before the camera gave up for good.Here is the lovely and talented M singing us a song she wrote recently. I believe I forgot to mention that Monica has one of the most astoundingly beautiful voices I have ever heard. And she lives in a yurt. I’m surprised that she’s only got four or so young men pining for her at the moment--who could resist a charming, musically gifted woman who lives in a yurt? Incidentally, she also lives in the town where they filmed the TV series “Northern Exposure” so you may already know what it looks like. It’s very quaint; I know that’s an overused real-estate term, but it fits. I loved the tiny-town feel of it without the tiny-mindedness that so often seems to accompany it. If I ever moved up there, something that has been increasingly on my mind, it would probably be to this town or somewhere in the vicinity. It is a lot drier there than Seattle and Issaquah, due to the intervening mountains in between, and that could bode much better for my health. This is all pure speculation at this point, at any rate, so don’t worry about me packing up next week.

The rest of my trip was a happy blur of driving in the rain, drinking good beer in local brewpubs, talking to friendly strangers, walking by the creek, eating yummy homemade food, drinking lots of hot tea, and playing with two amazingly cute felines. And best of all, soaking in all the green luscious nature that crowded around from every direction; the omnipresent water; the sky filling up with multicolored, riotous clouds; the falling leaves raining down like a fairy tale; the kind of place that I feel most at home.

Double Fabulous

Hey, everybody, I'm in Seattle right now! Or close enough--I'm in Issaquah, which is pretty darn close by and has even more trees and fewer buildings. There is a lot of rain going on at the moment, and just a few yards away is a neato beautiful creek full of really big fish trying to make it far enough upstream to spawn. I'm having so much fun I may never recover.

And to top off all the excitement, this is my 100th post. Happy centennial to me! Happy centennial to me! Okay, for you literalists out there, I am perfectly aware that a centennial celebrates one hundred years of something, and I have definitely not been blogging for anywhere near that long. But there is no word that I know of that describes celebrating one hundred occurrences of something, so it's what I'm sticking with and you'll just have to live with the woeful inaccuracy of it all.

Racism Alive and Well

This will only take a minute, but it won’t be painless. Today at the street fair I bought a “Save the Jena 6” shirt by the southern California organization Eracism . Everybody has been asking me what it means, and I’m a bit upset about this. Not just a bit. It is totally appalling that in this country every single person (even someone like me who doesn’t watch television) always knows about the latest escapade of Britney Spears, but somehow the worst case of racially motivated injustice that I’ve heard of in decades doesn’t show up on the national news radar. This in itself is a gross injustice. The situation in the small town of Jena, Louisiana, has been brewing for nearly a year now--and I just found out all the incriminating details a little over a week ago. Please take the time to learn what’s going on!

Read a detailed synopsis here (please read the whole thing! There are numerous facts and citations nearer the bottom of the page)

Recent articles about the latest news, especially concerning Mychal Bell, here.

Then DO something about it. You can sign a petition here. Other things you can do are write an editorial and submit it to your local newspaper, or you can write to Louisiana legislators and tell them you demand real justice (details of how to do this are in the Snopes article). You can write about this in YOUR blog. Don’t say, “I’ll do it tomorrow.” Tomorrow is always too late. Please do it now, while you’re thinking about it.

Demon Pants and Dr. Privy

I use my cell phone as my personal assistant--I write down everything I need to do the moment I think of it because I know I’ll forget it immediately otherwise. It’s also helpful since I can set an alarm to startle me into remembering things, too. Because typing in text is such a pain in the neck on a little bitty not-smart phone (I loathe text messages, just so’s you know. Loathe, despise, and abhor.) I use the nifty little text recognition feature--you know, where you begin typing in a word and it tries to guess what you’re writing as you go along. Sometimes it still can’t figure out what you mean by the time you get to the end of a word and makes a wild stab--often with highly amusing results.

For example, the other day I was writing an impromptu shopping list, and when I tried to add “deodorant,” what my phone came up with was demenpant. Demenpant?! Ok, so it’s not really demon pants, but it was close enough to make me laugh out loud. I do realize that 98 percent of the rest of humanity is not as easily entertained as I am, but this next one may amuse just a few of you. My very favorite misinterpreted spelling is when I’m writing in my pulmonologist appointments, which I have to do fairly frequently. The doctor’s name is Dr. Spitz, but my phone insists, every single time, that I must be scheduling an appointment to see Dr. Privy.

Spurkey

There’s a festive atmosphere brewing in my neighborhood--tomorrow begins the annual Adams Avenue Street Fair, which takes place exactly one third of a block from my front door. This weekend will be a riot of music, food, and wacky things for sale. The carnival is already up and running, with rides spinning their neon colors against the night sky. Chunky generators and floodlights are in place on the sidewalks twice per block. There are also several trailers parked around the neighborhood advertising various products. My personal favorite is the Spammobile. I am not making this up. Although it’s possible I’m spelling it wrong. I was too busy being amused at its bright blue existence to note the correct spelling of “Spam-mobile,” or whatever it may really be. The back of the vehicle (the sides of which are adorned with a photo of a gargantuan Spam sandwich) displays a whole slew of other fabulous Spam varieties for you to try. Did you know they make Spam Lite? Or turkey Spam? (Spurkey??!!) I think they should quit trying to make any pretenses of marketing a healthy product and stick with their extraordinarily processed salty original. I mean, they have a reputation to uphold. People expect a certain quality of food from them, and they really have no right to go around trying to foist healthier versions on the unsuspecting public.

Boring Update (Hey, you asked for it!)

I have heard from more than a few people (mostly those that live at least 1,500 miles away) that my blog contains far too many random musings and adjective-laden anecdotes, rather than cold hard facts about what the heck is going on in my life. So, in the interest of placating the plot-starved, I offer this update.

My knee continues to heal, but is having some weird nasty pain that may be nerve-related. I have no idea what this bodes for the future. I have been working minimal shifts at Stone since my surgery, and I just got switched over to the tours-only department. Yay! No more retail for me. On the downside, I haven’t been out of full-time work for this many months in years, and I’m not handling it well. I really can’t remember when I’ve had such a gaping void of a schedule. The last time I had no job I was in grad school, which provides plenty of stress and obligation to fill your daylight hours and then some.
I am starting to get antsy/depressed/stir crazy/mopey. I don’t do well at all with unstructured time. I need to figure out what to do with my life. I really mean it this time when I say I want out of field archaeology. The work itself is still as joyous and rewarding as ever; that's not the problem. I don’t like the degree of unprofessionalism that seems to be rampant in the field, I don’t like the politics, I don’t like being the red carpet for developers to further destroy the landscape, and most of all, I don’t like the lack of steady employment and medical benefits. I won’t bore you with further excogitations about what I DO plan on doing. This is a more sophisticated way of saying I'm really not sure.
My respiratory health is good. Which is rather surprising considering that I haven’t exercised in months and I’ve been doing a really crappy job of taking care of myself as far as daily maintenance goes (nebulizing, etc.). I did have a problem about a month ago, when my lungs decided it was time that I experienced another thrilling episode of hemoptysis. For those of you who aren’t medical students, that means when a blood vessel in your lungs bursts. It’s quite yucky, to say the least. This last time was thankfully quite mild compared to other times this has happened, thank god, but it still threw me for a loop. Coughing up blood never ceases to be disconcerting, no matter how many times it’s happened to you. At any rate, it wasn’t enough to warrant a hospital visit and it stopped within a few days. For the curious, the reason this happens is because of the scarring in my lungs (bronchiectasis) caused by poor lung function and numerous respiratory infections. What happens is that the airways become enlarged and kind of floppy; they lose their integrity and become great little hidey-holes for bacteria to hang out in and throw wild parties. It’s a rather vicious cycle--having repeated infections causes more bronchiectasis, which in turn makes you much more susceptible to subsequent infections.

Ah! Which brings me to another fine point: I am planning, no matter how badly or slowly, on doing another fundraising walk, probably in November. So please keep that in mind and get ready to throw lots of money at the PCD Foundation. Our financial situation is even more lousy than last year so please don’t cop out on me. We need you!
I also just had an eye exam and my eyes have stayed stable for the first time ever--there has been almost no change since my last exam a year and a half ago. Even the astigmatism is the same. And my eyes are totally healthy. Yippee. I celebrated by ordering a really funky new pair of glasses. I’m also seeing the dentist next month finally...but really, now, this update is starting to bore even me! You can’t possibly be enjoying this! I brushed my teeth twice already today, you know...

In slightly more interesting news, I went back to dance practice for the first time last Thursday, and my leg didn’t fall off or anything. It went really well. I sat down a lot, and I skipped the parts in the routines where we kneel. I hope to be dancing up a storm in no time. Don’t forget that we’re performing at the Renaissance Faire in Escondido at the end of October!
Thanks to those of you who persevered to the end, despite the excruciating banality of this post. I can’t please everyone, you know! I promise that my next installment will be chock-full of useless information, detailed descriptions of absolute minutiae, and stories about cats and feet.

PC=Pretty Crazy?

I inadvertently booby-trapped my friend’s house last night. You may recall that my friend Jen is blind. Not “optically challenged” or any other such nonsense. She prefers the term blind--but that doesn’t stop her from making “sighted people” jokes, either. I was at her house yesterday baby-sitting her big lovable baby of a dog while she was away, and I had a glass of water, which I only drank half of and then forgot all about. I left it on one of her end tables. Jen discovered it this morning by knocking it over and getting water everywhere. Oops. After she called to give me a good-natured hard time about it, I thought that I should have told her I did it on purpose to add some excitement to her life.

Jen actually appreciates being teased (within reason) about being blind. It’s often far more annoying to her to have people sidestep all through their conversation trying to avoid any reference to the fact that she can’t see. This is truly ridiculous behavior--after all, Jen is well aware that she’s blind. She’s noticed by now, believe me, and it’s a definitive part of who she is. I’ve actually been around her when people have said things like, “It’s nice to see you again,” and then immediately looked stricken by the fact that they used the word see. What the heck else are you supposed to say? “It’s nice to be-physically-in-your-immediate-presence again?” Pshaw! Jen is not offended by verbs that allude to seeing things. She doesn’t take it as some sort of sighted person taunt. She herself uses those words ALL the time. No big deal.

And then there’s the time that Jen was over at Kiki’s with us for a party, and asked where the bathroom was. This particular bathroom has no sink, as it has been in a state of remodeling limbo for a few months. While she was in there, I told Kiki we shouldn’t have warned her about the absence of sink; that in fact, we should have told her that it was really hard to find, and see how long it took her to figure out that we were playing a prank on her. We told her about our proposed joke when she came out, and this was her response: a very loud laugh and a pronouncement that “I love you guys!”

I do believe that the PC movement has produced some beneficial mind-opening for a lot of folks, but at the same time, sometimes it encourages people to act like fools. Most folks I know like to be called Black, not African American. And through the course of my work as an archaeologist, I’ve met quite a few Indians--not a single one of whom ever referred to his- or herself as Native American. Call people what they want to be called. It’s that simple. We don’t need to make up protracted polysyllabic phrases to describe people in a way that precludes--what, exactly? I’m not even sure.

Just one more example--a while ago, when another friend used to work in the restaurant industry, she was told to take a dish to a particular person at a large table full of people. The other server went through all kinds of painful lengths trying to describe who this person was, but Lisa just couldn’t see who she meant. After all, there were two women wearing red. Finally, Lisa asked, “Oh, you mean the black woman?” Apparently, the other server felt that it would be scandalous or offensive to call attention to the fact that the woman was, indeed, Black. I think that by sidestepping all around the issue she actually had the opposite of her intended effect. In reality, it could even be construed that she felt that being black was somehow a negative thing, or why else wouldn’t she have just said so? Here’s the other part of the story: everyone else at the table was white. That would have been such a simple way to distinguish her from the other guests--not a comment on racial relationships, a criticism of her skin color, or a slight against Black culture, just a momentarily distinguishing characteristic like the fact that she was wearing a red blouse. The same pretty much goes for disabled people--Jen doesn’t need or want kid-glove treatment. She wants to be joked with and teased like anybody else. Why shouldn’t she? And quit being so surprised that she can cook!

World Woes Cured by Spam

"Waves" photo copyright Wensheng Chen

I just got back home after a visit to the DMV, and I’m feeling rather unsettled. No, the visit itself was actually totally painless, relatively speaking. I timed my excursion so that I got there late in the day, and there was no line at all. The guy who gave me my ticket was even extra friendly and was cracking jokes about my T-shirt (the front says “HOLD ON TO YOUR BUTT” in large red letters). I only had to wait between ten and fifteen minutes for my number to be called, during which I was able to proofread three pages of a friend’s manuscript. I was just getting into my editing groove and was honestly almost frustrated that they called me so soon.

At any rate, after chatting with a nice lady about getting my new tags and being asked more wisecracking questions about my shirt by the security guard, I walked out to my car. As I was putting my new registration stickers on my license plate, I noticed a young man sitting near the sidewalk on one of those little concrete parking dividers. His posture exuded misery. His long hair was hanging down around his bowed head, obscuring his face, and occasionally he put his head all the way down cradling it in his arms. He looked distressed, not tired. Several times I thought about going over to him and asking him what was wrong. But I didn’t. I watched him the entire rest of the time that I was finishing my task, but never approached him. As I started up my car, he got up and wandered over to a nearby tree and leaned on it. He didn’t look that much happier than I had originally supposed. I drove away still wondering whether or not I should stop.

Here’s what unsettles me: why didn’t I help him? Was it because I don’t have the time? Definitely not. Was it because I don’t really care that much and don’t want to be bothered or sucked into whatever problem was plaguing him? No, I’m not that callous. Was it because he had stood up and was no longer looking quite so bereaved? I honestly don’t know. I asked myself these questions and others during my drive home. I’m still bothered by my behavior. I know it’s not necessarily a big thing, but how do I know it’s not? I’m disturbed that I seem to have bought into the current American attitude of “I’ve got mine, screw you,” if only temporarily. I really do think that as a culture, we tend to isolate ourselves from others. This isn’t right. Why is it so difficult for us to connect with strangers? What exactly are we risking that is so terrifying? What are we afraid of? I don’t like this culture of fear. It is at the heart of many things that are wrong with the world today. I placated myself somewhat with this thought: I feel that the fact that I’m even asking myself these questions brings me a tiny bit closer to being a decent human being than your average schmo, but not by much. Actions are what truly define you, not what’s in your head.

This incident reminded me of another time when I did stop to help somebody. I was driving home one day last year and a woman was half lying, half sitting on the sidewalk next to the bus stop. I immediately pulled into the adjacent parking lot and went to her side to see what was wrong. She couldn’t remember why she fell. I helped her up and sat with her on the bench for several minutes. I asked her if I should stay with her, but she swore she was fine. She also told me that she had been there for a while. Nobody else had stopped. Mind you, this is on a busy street with lots of traffic. What the hell? And I know some of you may be thinking, “Well, bless you for stopping. You are such a good person to help her.” Bullshit. Forgive my French, but that is nonsense. I really don’t understand why helping another human being you’ve never met before suddenly earns you a Good Samaritan trophy and makes you eligible for beatification right on the spot. It should just be what people do. The real issue is: what is wrong with everybody else that they didn't stop? I am amazed and saddened by this.

I can’t help but think what a different place this world would be if nobody was afraid to help a stranger--if we all felt so connected to one another, simply as fellow human beings, that there would never be any question or hesitation about helping. It should be a given. Helping others should be the default behavior, not the other way around. I apologize for the somewhat downtrodden and perhaps even bitter tone of this post, but I really am disturbed by this. I am disturbed by and ashamed of my own inaction today. I can’t help wondering what that young man is doing right now and if he is ok.

And now for something completely different (and a much lighter note): earlier today as I was waiting on the sidewalk for the light to change, a friend pulled up and called, “Hey baby! Watcha doing?” at me. It made me laugh and smile all across my face. I love living in a neighborhood where I know enough people that someone I know can randomly drive by when I’m walking down the street. That’s a pretty monumental achievement in a city of nearly one and a half million.
And the back of my shirt reads, “Our beaches and streets are not ashtrays,” courtesy of Surfrider Foundation

Belated Dance Triumph

To be more precise, the dance triumph wasn’t belated, the reporting of it is. Back during the first weekend of August my dance troupe performed at the San Diego Renaissance Faire. For the uninitiated, our troupe, Blue Lotus, performs at several venues during the year. We do ethnic/folk/belly dancing. Not the kind of belly dancing where you wear coin-laden bikinis and shimmy like there’s no tomorrow. We do a lot of very traditional dances and we wear a lot more clothing than the cabaret style belly dancers do. My apologies. I’m a big fan of cabaret style dancing, too, but I have to say I’m relieved that I get to cover up a bit more.

At any rate, this was our first stage show at the Faire. In the past, we just hung around Liz’s Turkish coffee booth and danced in front of the tent whenever the mood struck and/or we felt that there were enough spectators. This was a much more formal and organized event. We put on a real show. Since you aren’t allowed to have recorded music at a Renaissance Faire, we had to provide all of our own noise. We drummed, played zils (finger cymbals), called, and sang while we danced. We were very lucky on the second day to have two outstanding musicians from the local group Middle Earth perform with us on the drums and the violin. Since we had the stage for a whole half-hour to ourselves, we really hammed it up. We told dumb jokes. We made spectators come up on stage with us. We yelled at each other and at the audience. It was a total blast. In addition to being the most fun I’ve ever had at a show with Blue Lotus, it is also the best we’ve ever performed since I joined the troupe.

At least seven individuals and couples had told me that they would be going to the Faire to watch us dance, but alas, not a single one made it. Everyone had a very good reason for not showing up, but I’m terribly disappointed that no one I know was there to witness our best show ever. To assuage your saddened souls, I posted just a few more photos of our performance on my Flickr account, but not too many. They just don’t capture the energy of the dances. And for those of you who really wanted to come but couldn’t, you will get a second chance. We enjoyed ourselves so much that we signed up to perform at the Escondido Renaissance Faire next month. It will be in Felicita Park off the 15, and it is two weekends: October 27-28th and November 3-4th. I will let you all know the times when it gets closer. We will be doing pretty much the same show that we put on in San Diego, and who knows, maybe our jokes will be even better by then.

Why I Used to Love to Fly

When I was younger, I never understood why so many people complained about air travel--I always thought it was a total blast. I have been an experienced flyer since I was about one year old, and I have always loved it. I desperately wanted to be a pilot when I was a teenager, but was talked out of it, damn my high school counselor... And then with the past few years of increasingly congested airports, increased security, and increased general grumpiness of all air travelers and airport personnel alike, I, too, began to feel a hint of crankiness at the suggestion of flying anywhere. Last year I was unfortunate enough to fly out on the morning when they first instated the “no gels or liquids” rule, and all holy hell broke out. It was easily my most unpleasant and harrowing day of travel ever. I arrived at my destination a whopping 5 hours late after much suffering, the detailed description of which I will generously spare you.

But yesterday’s experience brought back to me everything I love about flying--getting to meet new people, getting to watch a whole lot of new people, checking out the intriguing differences in architecture and decor of different airports, and of course, the thrill of taking off and the brilliant view afforded by a substantially increased altitude.

I arrived at Phoenix airport a little too early, so I decided to check out a promising museum-type artsy fartsy shop. It paid off--I acquired a shiny new pair of funky glass earrings, and I spent about 20 minutes talking to the young man who worked there. He was an immensely interesting individual to converse with. He immigrated here with his family 7 years ago from Somalia (actually, they had lived for several years in Kenya prior to that to escape the strife in his home country). I asked him if there was a long waiting list or if it was otherwise difficult to leave, and he told me that his father used to work for the UN when they lived in Africa, so it really expedited things. We talked about a lot of subjects--immigration, racism, education, cultural differences, pursuing one’s dreams--and I was thoroughly enjoying it all, but I had to excuse myself to go sit down because my knee was yelling at me.

After finding a seat at the terminal, I found more amiable people. A man plopped down right next to me (not one seat over as we are so inclined to do in this part of the world) and immediately launched into some friendly banter. A nice guy. He had a bit of a funny haircut in the back, because as he admitted to me and another woman, he had drunk too much vodka the night before and somehow decided that that was an auspicious time to ask a friend to cut his hair. Then the PA system suddenly announced that we all needed to sing happy birthday to someone waiting for our flight to board. A rowdy group of young women four rows over exhorted everybody to sing along, trying with all their might to embarrass the nice young man whose birthday it was. He was traveling alone and didn't even know the women who had spontaneously decided he needed a birthday serenade. It made me laugh.

Once up in the plane, I only read about 4 pages from the book I brought along; I spent nearly the entire flight with my nose pressed up against the window reveling in the landscapes and cloudscapes passing by. On a short flight such as this one was, you don’t gain too much altitude, so the land below is clear and easily identifiable if you know your landmarks. I was very pleased with myself in that I could identify so many major landmarks between the Colorado River and the California coast. A lot of this stems from having worked so extensively in the southern California wilderness. It was a beautiful sight. Landforms take on a whole other personality and geology is blatant and obvious when you are 10,000 feet up in the air.

After the much-diminished Colorado river snaked and doubled its way underneath us, we passed over the Imperial Valley. First there were the Chocolate Mountains, their jaggedy peaks disintegrating into miles of alluvial buildup, with sinuous and regular drainage patterns making a sparse necklace spread at their feet. The interwoven drainages led right up to the sprawl of the Algodones Sand Dunes that extend for dozens of miles. The dunes don’t look terribly dunelike or wavy from the air; viewed all together from such a distance they looked more like the corrugated skin of some giant dun-colored reptile. Immediately abutting the dunes and the canals that separated the alluvial spread of the Chocolate Mountains was the multicolored patchwork of fields that define the Imperial Valley. It looked like an earthy version of a Mondrian painting in varying hues of green, gold, and brown. The Salton sea glimmered dully at the north end of the agricultural zone, and went on forever. The desert showed its face abruptly again at the western edge of the fields and canals, a reminder that without the influx of imported water and constant human maintenance, this valley would revert in a matter of minutes to the thriving furnace of desert habitat it once was.

The desert of the Imperial Valley looks particularly bleak from the air. I know from experience that it contains a wealth of flora and wacky desert animals, but from the airplane it looked like nothing more than a yawning stretch of pale mud flats. This level expanse, punctuated only by the Superstition Mountains--more like hills; they look like mute nubs from the air-- gradually morphed into a series of low hills and ridges that led up to the mountain range that demarcates the border of San Diego County. The hills here look ancient; they are so eroded that they are more drainage than hill, a collection of skeletal ridges and thin spines surrounded by a mesh of deep interwoven ravines and drainage systems. They looked exactly like a washed-out version of those computer-generated fractal images that were so popular a few years ago. After these hills, the land began to gradually rise up into the rocky peaks of the Jacumba Mountains that surround the steep In-Ko-Pah grade winding up toward San Diego.
"Lake of Fire" copyright 2006 Kerry Mitchell

The boulders and rocks that loom so large when you are on the ground next to them look like completely different beasts from the air. They don’t even look like pebbles--they look as if someone scattered rock salt over the hills. As the hills got higher, that someone mixed in some dried oregano with the rock salt. A mere smattering of green specks. With a little more altitude, it started looking like someone had occasionally smeared the landscape with a paintbrush of glue so that the oregano stuck to the hills in larger swaths. Gradually, the vegetation increased until the the land was coated with a thick nubby green blanket. As we flew further over the mountains, the green collected and pooled in the ravines in crowded masses of trees.

Suddenly in the midst of all this rocky green profusion, Interstate 8 sprang into view. From there I could identify the 94 snaking its way down south, and along it I could even see the dirt lot and tiny school in Campo where I once taught independent study for Mountain Empire School District. From there, I followed the 94 with my eyes until it passed Potrero, that lovely rural settlement in the hills where the geeks descend twice a year for their Medieval war reenactments. I could also see up north of the 8 where Sunrise Highway streaked along the crest of the Laguna Mountains. The sprawling green meadows that interrupted the thick forests were shining and bright. I swear I could almost see the group of rocks I sat upon just a few weeks ago the last time I was there. East of this, riding the very edge of the mountain range, lay Thing Valley, a short swipe of paler green within the dark piney-ness. From the air, it looks like a shallow depression, even though its eastern ridge rises a thousand feet from the valley floor. The other side of the same ridge falls over four thousand feet straight down into the Anza Borrego desert; it is the last line of defense for the Lagunas and their thirsty flora.

With one glance I could simultaneously see the observatory on Mount Laguna and the larger observatory perched on top of Palomar Mountain. Lake Henshaw gleamed in between, and to the northeast, Los Coyotes Reservation stood with its tall peaks jabbing at the sky. Then, as I continued my visual tour of the 94 freeway, I saw the cloudy blue of Otay Lakes below, looking a bit shrunken, and north of them a few cars crawling to a halt at the Border Patrol checkpoint as you near the T-intersection at Jamacha Junction.

Once over San Diego proper, I tried to find as many of my friend’s houses as I could, but we were going too fast to really be sure most of the time. I would have easily been able to identify Kiki’s house, except for the fact that we flew directly over it--as you will also notice if you ever go to visit her. I discovered something I hadn't noticed before as we began our descent in earnest over Balboa Park--the Aerospace Museum has its title grandly painted in huge letters across its circular roof. Something solely for the benefit of air travelers. It is only fitting.

Road Rage and the Problem with the Word "Fickle"

Fickle. Yes, fickle is how some people like to describe the weather when it is wildly varied from day to day. I don’t particularly like that word applied to meteorological phenomena because it connotes an element of cuteness; it makes the weather sound coy and playful. I don’t find sweltering and panting my way through one long night with the fan pointed directly at my head while I sleep and then having the next night so breezy and cool that I’m actually cold and need a blanket playful. It’s maddening, I tell you! And the madness has spread. Whilst I was out running errands in between doctor appointments today I witnessed some of the worst collective driving I’ve ever seen in a single day. I kid not. The worst EVER. I will illustrate with just a tiny sampling of incidents from among the numerous near-catastrophes I was party to on my drive around town. In the most spectacular idiot fit of all, there was the young woman who was so busy shouting animatedly out of her window at the doofus in front of her who was making an illegal and traffic-halting U-turn that she almost ran into someone else head-on who immediately commenced honking and yelling at HER. And then there was the poor befuddled human who was stopped in front of me. He was stopped at an intersection where there was no stop sign and no traffic light. Just stopped. Admiring the mailbox arrangement on the corner, perhaps? Pondering whether or not it was worth it to even go on? I’ll never know.

In another unrelated sighting this afternoon, I drove by a middle-aged man smoking outside a building and wearing, I swear, what appeared to be a somewhat pained and guilty look. I was perplexed for about .6 seconds until I noticed that he was standing within five feet of a large sign painted on the building's side that declared, “Stop Smoking in 30 Minutes!!!”--complete with a large ticking clock graphic. I guess he was on minute 29.

And now for the daily knee update: not too much has changed; I’m still limping because my leg can’t straighten out completely, but I can bend it nearly all the way back to its full range. However, the doctor discovered something today that really disturbs me. He felt compelled to measure my thigh muscles and I have evidently lost one centimeter of girth from my right leg. In only three weeks! It’s daunting how quickly muscle mass can go away, and how much more effort it takes to gain it back. I really want to start working out again with a vengeance before my body dissolves into nothing. I am a big flabby mess right now. Okay, I will concede that I’m only a small flabby mess, but a bucket of out-of-shape jiggliness nonetheless. One centimeter!!!!

How Not to Melt

I’m not sure how many people are aware of how dang hot it is in Southern California right now. If you don’t live here, I couldn’t fairly expect you to, as I have no idea how hot it is anywhere else. Oh, except for Seattle. I hear that it’s quite nice up there at the moment. I woke up in a good mood this morning, despite the fact that for the past few days, my ceiling fans have not been anywhere near strong enough to quell the tidepools of sweat that I’ve engendered by doing nothing more strenuous than sitting in my living room. And panting. Like a dog. This may be a slight exaggeration, but not by much. Well, today I woke up happy and determined to be more aggressive in trying to invent ways to keep my core temperature from reaching the boiling point than I had been yesterday.

Yesterday I spent much of the day simply lolling about and feeling too hot to move anything more than my eyelids. Even blinking was a chore if I thought about it too much. I didn’t take a shower because that would have been a futile waste of water. Late in the evening, I decided that I had to either leave the house or spontaneously combust, so I tried to cool down with a trip to the beach, but even that was no relief. I drove to my favorite spot out on Sunset Cliffs Blvd., but the ocean breeze was not moving much at all and I didn’t feel refreshed in the slightest. The waves were gorgeous and soothing but the still air was like salty jello congealed around my body. On the way home I was craving a processed fast food cheese sammich from In-n-Out (yes, even I, the paragon of vegetarian tree-hugging health-food-touting virtue cannot resist the lure of the french fried goodness that is In-n-Out), but their drive-through line was exceptionally elongated by hordes of other suffering people who similarly didn’t want to heat up their houses by cooking. I was horribly disappointed, and drove home still too warm and now hungry to boot. Fortunately, when I called Jen up at 10:00 pm to whine about my dire situation she promptly agreed that a trip to an air-conditioned spot that serves french fries was a capital idea and we left about 90 seconds later. That grilled cheese sammich was all that I had hoped and more. MMMmmmmmmmm cheeeeeeeeeeese!

Today in the late morning I went to the farmer’s market, which was scorching and rather unpleasant except for the new jade adornments I purchased and the tasty mango agua fresca that I guzzled down in about two minutes flat. I also had some raw vegan salad hippy food that was quite yummy in addition to being really good for me and canceling out the decadent American cheese-ness of the night before. And then I bought some astoundingly delicious organic heirloom tomatoes. Honestly, it made me roll my eyes they were so tasty. I’d eat another one right now except that I plan on going to bed sometime soon and all that acid is not a good precursor to a restful night’s sleep.

After the market excursion--I had the air conditioner on full blast in the car both ways, a real indulgence--I didn’t have too much time to contemplate where the next cool hideout might be. Kerry called me up and more or less demanded that I accompany her and her husband to a local pub. It wasn’t hard to oblige. The Wit’s End is a great little place in Hillcrest that serves really good beer. I was quite impressed with their selection and the friendly bar service, and we stayed there several hours trying about five or six ales between the three of us, munching on really outstanding panninis, making several new acquaintances, and listening to an astonishing amount of early metal and 80s hair band music (musical selections courtesy of Kerry and the owner). If I hadn’t developed a persistent headache we would probably still be there right now. And I do have to admit that “Surrender” by Cheap Trick is one of my favorite songs ever. Truly.

Gypsy Punks and a Pair of Crutches

Things are getting better! Only five days ago I could barely bend my knee to 90 degrees and I was still using crutches for long distances. Now I am completely off the crutches, and after seeing the physical therapist, I can bend my knee up to 125 degrees. My target is 150, to give some perspective. I apologize for the profound banality of this section of the post, but not much else is going on. It's tough to wax poetic about life when all it consists of is doing leg exercises and getting excited about being able to walk up the stairs without limping or holding on to the wall. Actually, I do have something mildly momentous (I love contradictions) to report. I am returning to Stone on Monday for my first day of work since the surgery. I will be easing back into things gradually--I'm still not allowed to do any "excessive walking or standing," meaning anything more than 15-20 minutes at a stretch. And in other fine news, my good friend Steve was here visiting all this past week, and that was wonderful as all hell, although still not anything that's going to make an entertaining blog entry for anybody else. We had long conversations together! We went out to DINNER! I was just reveling in his company--he lives in another state and I don't get to see him very often at all. This visit marked nearly one year since I last saw him.

Well, the night he got here, something really noteworthy DID happen. We went out to the Gogol Bordello concert, and boy howdy holy crap oh my god was it the best thing ever! The photo at the top is a fraction of the band practicing stage antics in the Alps, incidentally. I had originally planned on going with my brother and another guy from Stone, and Steve just couldn’t bear to be left out, so he went, too. They performed at the House of Blues, which I’ve never been to before, and it was (say this with an outRAGEOUS French accent) verry nice. I liked that there were several different rooms to hang out in if you so chose. If I had been there with a non-gimpy leg and if it was any other band playing, I would have explored more (you wouldn’t ever want to miss the visual spectacle of Gogol Bordello onstage, believe me). There were comfy couches and everything in one of the bar areas, where you could still hear the music just fine, but it was at a much more reasonable number of decibels so you could have conversations without screaming directly into people’s ears.

Because my knee prevented me from standing up for the duration of the night's festivities, I got to sit in the special gimp section. They gave me a chair and roped off the area so people wouldn't trip over us and cause more damage and drama. It mostly worked. There was an extremely nice couple sitting next to me who were very helpful and instrumental in trying to figure out where the heck Steve and Ken had gotten off to before the concert started. The only frustrating thing about the evening was that I couldn’t stand up and jump up and down and thrash around and dance like one possessed or try to get on the stage. These are all things that are more or less obligatory at a Gogol Bordello concert. Trust me. I liked that they not only allowed audience members to jump on the stage and join the fray, they invited and encouraged them to do so.

The band is truly amazing. Even if you didn’t care for their music (are there people who do that?) I challenge anyone to go see them live and not yell and scream and thrash around. Their energy is astounding and boundless and infectious. They don’t just play music, they put on an exhausting, exhilarating and insane show. Accordions. Two screaming women in crazy costumes like grown up violent Punky Brewsters. Cuss words. Lyrics shouted out in unintelligible Ukrainian accents. Cymbals and giant drums. Mandatory audience participation. Crowd-surfing band members. These are shallow attempts to convey the unbelievable colors, sounds and energy of the concert, but there is really no way to do so with words. They did two or three encores, or ten, I'm not sure. Not enough. I have never, and I mean NEVER, seen an audience react to a show the way this one did. Every single person was moving; it was a sweaty sea of people jumping up and down in a frantic tempo and clapping their hands high over their heads. I know I've already pretty much said this, but this was truly one of the most spectacular (very much a spectacle) concerts I've ever attended. I was even inspired to buy a t-shirt, something I've only done on one other occasion since 1988.

Kathryn and the Technicolor DreamBarf

It’s time for the long-awaited update on what happened in the aftermath of my knee surgery. So yes, of course, the first few days were a bit rough. The pain medication they gave me made me horribly nauseated, but when I stopped taking it the pain was much worse than I had thought it would be. You see, immediately after the surgery they inject the site with a strong numbing agent, which wears off. I was actually surprised when I came home at how little it hurt. “Piece of cake!” I was thinking to myself. You should never, ever say that. The second day after the surgery, in the midst of trying to avoid taking the nausea-inducing medication and with the numbing stuff completely worn off, the pain reared its ugly spiky little head and sank its fangs in to the hilt. I was whimpering in a rather embarrassing kind of way. It made me cry.

And then, to make things even more memorable, two times that same day when I attempted to get up to go to the bathroom, the movement, the pain, the fact that I had just eaten, or a combination of all three, SOMETHING made the nausea come to a hideous peak. And I barfed--or rather (the faint of heart may want to skip to the next paragraph), I had the most unbelievable attack of truly high-velocity projectile vomit that I have ever experienced. Once the sick feeling subsided, I actually found it rather entertaining. You see, I had just eaten a raspberry smoothie and it was not only the fastest barf ever, but honestly, the prettiest as well. It was quite a lovely shade of purpley-fuschia. I will be kind and spare you the description of the second incident; it wasn’t so nice. Fortunately, I had a good friend here both times and she was a godsend. Jen is amazing and compassionate and imperturbable. That coupled with her complete lack of a sense of smell makes her the ideal friend to have sitting with you when you are barfing.

Things improved quite a bit after that (they had to, didn’t they?). Kiki went and retrieved an alternate pain medication which helped quell the queasies, and the pain slithered back into submission. The only real problem I had the next several days was combating boredom and my increasing frustration at not being able to do anything myself. Something that hadn’t occurred to me before the surgery is that when you are hobbling around on crutches, you can’t carry anything. After a few days, I had a brilliant idea and began carrying things around in a small cloth bag on my shoulder. That was especially helpful with my phone--previously, if it rang while I was in the other room, there was no way on earth I could limp my way in there fast enough to answer it. So the phone traveled with me in its little bag all over the house. The only problem the bag couldn’t solve was eating meals. I challenge anyone to put a full bowl of cereal in a bag and tote it into the next room intact. So people still had to come over and help me anytime I wanted to eat anything other than a sealed yogurt. I don’t take well at all to being sedentary or making others do my chores. On the 6th day after my surgery I spent a good 10 minutes trying to prepare a bowl of cereal by myself for breakfast--which entailed balancing on one crutch while pulling things out of the fridge or the cupboard, and multiple trips between the kitchen and living room to retrieve my bowl, spoon, cereal box, and soy milk, and then the ensuing reassemblage. I was so frustrated at the finish of all this that when I dropped something I promptly threw a temper tantrum and hurled it across the room.

I am much better now. I got to leave the house last Sunday for a very fun trip downtown to a bar where all my coworkers from Stone were gathering before the Padres game. I had signed up for the game, too, but had to concede that it just wasn’t going to happen in my present state. I stopped taking the Vicodin on Monday, and have been hobbling my way around my house without crutches since Tuesday. Tuesday I was also visited by my dear friend Peter, and after a few hours of long-awaited catching up he took me out to dinner and a beer. P usually lives on another continent so it was absolutely wonderful to get to spend a solid 8 hours with him in a row; a rare occurrence as he also has to squeeze in visits with his entire family and other friends in his much-too-short 2-week vacation here.

My healing is really progressing: I can see my kneecap now, although the swelling isn't completely gone. I am scheduled to start physical therapy next week, which will help with my current problem of not being able to bend my knee past 90 degrees. And last but not least, here are some fascinating photos of the inside of my knee taken during the surgery. This first one is the picture of the actual torn meniscus cartilage--that part curving up along the bone at the top of the gap between the bones and to the left of the tweezer things is not supposed to be there at all. What they did to repair it was plane off the part that was torn and sticking out. I had thought that they would be stitching it back together, but was told that as cartilage is a non-living tissue, it would never knit itself back together--so removing the torn bit is really your only option (and the whole reason I had to have it surgically mended).
The photos below are possibly after they fixed it but I really can't be sure; the doctor showed them to me too quickly. I'm just amazed at how clean and pretty it is in there--I guess I expected it to be all red and bloody and gruesome. Since it is a very small area captured by the surgical scope, all that shows in the photos is a lot of bone and a little cartilage, hence the lack of gore. I think in a sick sort of way I was actually disappointed that the photos weren't more grisly. I really must be hard up for entertainment!

Grumble

To my dear fans who have been badgering me for an update: I am having knee surgery tomorrow, and I’m rather dreading it. I frickin’ hate surgery. I am very much so looking forward to the eventual outcome, but having an anesthesia hangover and hobbling around my tiny house on crutches and taking narcotics for a few days just sounds nasty. Urgh. I will have more time than I know what to do with after tomorrow, so you can be sure that a true update is forthcoming. Something with lots of adjectives.

Ta for now--I’m going to go putter around trying to distract myself, and clean up my house since I won’t be able to do anything like that for a while after the surgery. And I’m going to eat as much food as I possibly can fit in my tummy before midnight.

I'll be in my trailer...

Sylvie in her new favorite window

I am somewhat established in my new happy abode; I have unpacked eight boxes or so and my computer is finally connected. I love my new apartment. This move has been one of the best steps forward for my emotional health in a very long time. I hadn’t realized the magnitude of my dislike for my roommate situation. Not only am I living by myself in my very own space without having to share a kitchen or a bathroom, but I am starting over. This is a new space that I've never shared with anyone else, and that is really healing for me. And aside from all that feel-good business, this place is just cool. It is incredibly bright and sunny, has hardwood floors (in not-so-hot condition, but I don’t mind), it’s upstairs above my own garage, and my new neighbors are very nice.






















Plus my new landlady is really wonderful--I had expressed some trepidation over the condition of the place before I moved in, so she made sure her maintenance guy fixed it, she paid me $50 to clean it (believe me, it was worth at least that much!), and she reimbursed me for all the new cabinet hardware I bought. They are even going to buy me a new fridge once I find an Energy Star one for the right price. Most of all, however, I am pleased that the landlady is simply a nice human being, and as it's her daughter who owns the place she has some real emotional investment in maintaining the property and making sure tenants are happy. When I went to sign the lease she had me meet her at Starbucks (I spared her the lecture) and she insisted on buying me something to drink--”to celebrate,” she said. She is very sweet.

On to my new status as a movie star. Oh yes. Last weekend, right after I moved in, still riding the big blurry wave of exhaustion, I helped one of my friends at Stone make a movie. It was such an incredible blast. I can’t tell you how much fun I had. No really, I can’t. It was that fun. Molly is our graphic artist at Stone and she is a warm, friendly, and very artistic and talented individual. As I recently discovered, she has her own film company these days and has been involved in the 48-hour Film Project for the last three years. The way this works is that competing film crews are given exactly 48 hours to write, film, edit and turn in a 7-minute film. Genres and required plot elements are handed out at the beginning of the 48-hour period to eliminate the possibility of cheating. We drew the “buddy film” genre, and were required to use the following in our film: a character named either Alex or Alice Gomm, a character who is a county official, a spoon, and the line, “Get that thing away from me!”

I think we did a really smashing job, if I say so myself. It’s a real inspiration and I feel privileged to get to work with so many talented people at Stone. At least five brewery employees were major contributors to the project--Molly was our illustrious producer, Matt was the lead actor in the film, Kevin was one of our key script writers and prop dudes, and Barbara blew us all away with her new skills as sound guru. I must add that she looked quite sexy with those headphones on, holding the boom mike and having all that technology hanging off her hip. But she always looks sexy.

What I meant to say was that I’ve really suffered from a lack of creativity in my life the last several years, and I’ve been making small and slow steps toward rectifying that. This movie adventure is a splendiferous example. I thoroughly enjoyed being around so many creative and friendly people. There were about 20 of us working on this project at different intervals, a handful of whom were there throughout the entire process--kudos to Charlie, our intrepid director (and Molly’s brother, incidentally). Friday night we stayed up late brainstorming and nailing down the basic plot elements. Having been selected as one of the actors, I was allowed to go home to get some beauty rest (it didn’t work) while others stayed up all night writing the script and making props. After a solid three hours’ sleep, I came back and we started shooting Saturday morning at 7 a.m. We finished filming and doing the voice-overs at 5 a.m. the next morning. I managed to fall asleep at Molly’s at 6 in the morning on Sunday, after being up for 25 hours on 3 hours’ sleep and spending most of my day in front of very warm lights saying the same lines over and over again...

That was mostly for dramatic effect. While it was thoroughly exhausting--by Sunday morning both Matt and I had sore throats and he was getting really hoarse; he had a lot more lines than I did--I wouldn’t have traded it for the world. I had more fun than should be legal. The only thing that I am worried about is the film screening tonight. I found out after we finished filming that all of the films are being shown at the Hillcrest Cinemas--on a very large real live actual movie screen. I feel like throwing up when I think of seeing myself on a big screen like that. I don’t know if I can handle it, I really don’t. I've been threatening to leave when our film starts (but I know that my curiosity will get the better of me and I'll stay). So far I’ve only seen a little bit of the finished product on youtube and I turned the sound off for most of it. My big consolation is that I was only the supporting cast; Matt was the real star of the film and the camera focused on him for 90% of the time. I’m truly relieved that I’m in the background for most of the film; I really don’t enjoy looking at myself that much. And since Matt is much better looking than I am, it’s probably a relief for the audience as well!

I do have to say that I enjoyed all the extra attention at work yesterday. People from the office kept coming downstairs and talking about how they had seen the film; a few had even seen our few minutes of fame on Fox news on Saturday night. There was occasional random quoting of select lines from the film and appraising looks (no fawning, though; I could have used some good fawning) from folks who had had no previous clue that not only can I pour beer, but that I possess a WEALTH of acting talent as well. Cough. Ack. I think I have a hairball...

June 21: ok, ok, ok, I've been badgered by several people to post the movie on my blog, so here ya go. I'll be in the other room humming loudly.

So far nobody has asked for my autograph. What gives?